Joel Benton (1832–1911)

IN the summer nights, when the world’s tumult stills,

I hear at the wood’s edge the whippoorwill’s

Quaint, plaintive-phrased, monotonous refrain,

Flooding with pathos vale and dell and plain.

Silent until the setting of the sun,

He sings when the day’s choristry is done,

With palpitant burst of rhythm and iterant rhyme

Rich with the redolent grace of summer-time.

Shy recluse of the woods and shaded streams,

Recaller of our life’s youth-haloed dreams,

Brown portent that securely baffles sight,

Sacred to Wonder and Mysterious Night.

How alien to the din of city streets

Are all thy notes and twilight-kissed retreats!

That song of rapture, weird yet exquisite,

Who shall explain—who try to fathom it?

It tells of bosky haunts and fields of peace,

Of dew-wet meadows, and the day’s surcease;

Of happy homes beyond that fast-closed door

Entombing childhood which returns no more.