The Whippoorwill And I.

In the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,
I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,
Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill,
Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will."

And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,
Has he been playing truant this long summer day?
I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."

But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;
I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for.
I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."

Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day,
And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away?
I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."

Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears,
I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."

But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;
I'm out of all patience, don't mock me again.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."

Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell,
I'll shut down the window, and bid you farewell;
But of one thing be sure, I won't whip him until
You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.

I listened a moment, as if for reply,
But nothing was heard but the bird's mocking cry.
I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;
It breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."

Horatio Alger, Jr.

Horatio Alger, Jr. was a prolific 19th-century American author, best known for his many young adult novels about impoverished boys who rise from humble backgrounds to lives of middle-class security and comfort through hard work, determination, courage, and honesty. His works, which typically feature a rags-to-riches narrative, were immensely popular and instilled the American Dream ideal. Alger's stories were a reflection of the societal values of his time. However, despite his success as a writer, he lived a rather modest life and never married.

Horatio Alger, Jr.

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Horatio Alger, Jr., Simple Poetry

The Price Of Victory.

Horatio Alger, Jr., Simple Poetry

The Confession.

Horatio Alger, Jr., Simple Poetry

English

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The Whip-Poor-Will.

"The plaint of the wailing Whip-poor-will,
    Who mourns unseen and ceaseless sings
Ever a note of wail and wo,
    Till Morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow."

                                J. R. Drake.


Why dost thou come at set of sun,
Those pensive words to say?
Why whip poor Will?--What has he done?
And who is Will, I pray?

Why come from yon leaf-shaded hill,
A suppliant at my door?--
Why ask of me to whip poor Will?
And is Will really poor?

If poverty's his crime, let mirth
From his heart be driven:
That is the deadliest sin on earth,
And never is forgiven!

Art Will himself?--It must be so--
I learn it from thy moan,
For none can feel another's wo
As deeply as ...

George Pope Morris

Whippoorwill Time

Let down the bars; drive in the cows:
The west is barred with burning rose.
Unhitch the horses from the ploughs,
And from the cart the ox that lows,
And light the lamp within the house:
The whippoorwill is calling,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill,"
Where the locust blooms are falling
On the hill;
The sunset's rose is dying,
And the whippoorwill is crying,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill";
Soft, now shrill,
The whippoorwill is crying,
"Whippoorwill."

Unloose the watch-dog from his chain:
The first stars wink their drowsy eyes:
A sheep-bell tinkles in the lane,
And where the shadow deepest lies
A lamp makes bright the window-pane:
The whippoorwill is calling,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill,"
Where the berry-blooms are falling
On the...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Whippoorwill

I

Above lone woodland ways that led
To dells the stealthy twilights tread
The west was hot geranium red;
And still, and still,
Along old lanes the locusts sow
With clustered pearls the Maytimes know,
Deep in the crimson afterglow,
We heard the homeward cattle low,
And then the far-off, far-off woe
Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"

II

Beneath the idle beechen boughs
We heard the far bells of the cows
Come slowly jangling towards the house;
And still, and still,
Beyond the light that would not die
Out of the scarlet-haunted sky;
Beyond the evening-star's white eye
Of glittering chalcedony,
Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry
Of "whippoorwill," of "whippoorwill."

III

And in the city oft, when ...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Whippoorwill

I.

Above lone woodland ways that led
To dells the stealthy twilights tread
The west was hot geranium red;
And still, and still,
Along old lanes the locusts sow
With clustered pearls the Maytimes know,
Deep in the crimson afterglow,
We heard the homeward cattle low,
And then the far-off, far-off woe
Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"

II.

Beneath the idle beechen boughs
We heard the far bells of the cows
Come slowly jangling towards the house;
And still, and still,
Beyond the light that would not die
Out of the scarlet-haunted sky;
Beyond the evening-star's white eye
Of glittering chalcedony,
Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry
Of "whippoorwill," of "whippoorwill."

III.

And in the city oft, wh...

Madison Julius Cawein

Rizpah

I.

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea
And Willys voice in the wind, O mother, come out to me.
Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go?
For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow.

II.

We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town.
The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down,
When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain,
And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the rain.

III.

Anything fallen again? naywhat was there left to fall?
I have taken them home, I have numberd the bones, I have hidden them all.
What am I saying? and what are you? do you come as a spy?
Falls? what falls? who ...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Whip-Poor-Will And Katy-Did

Slow de night 's a-fallin',
An' I hyeah de callin,
Out erpon de lonesome hill;
Soun' is moughty dreary,
Solemn-lak an' skeery,
Sayin' fu' to "whip po' Will."

Now hit 's moughty tryin',
Fu' to hyeah dis cryin',
'Deed hit 's mo' den I kin stan';
Sho' wid all our slippin',
Dey 's enough of whippin'
'Dout a bird a'visin' any man.

In de noons o' summah
Dey 's anothah hummah
Sings anothah song instid;
An' his th'oat 's a-swellin'
Wid de joy o' tellin',
But he says dat "Katy did."

Now I feels onsuhtain;
Won't you raise de cu'tain
Ovah all de ti'ngs dat 's hid?
W'y dat feathahed p'isen
Goes erbout a-visin'
Whippin' Will w'en Katy did?

Paul Laurence Dunbar