What did I know of trouble? 
    An idle little lad;
  I had not learned the lessons
    That make men wise and sad,
  I dreamed of grief and parting,
    And something seemed to fill
  My heart with tears, while in my ears
    Resounded “whip-poor-will.”
  “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”

  ’Twas but a shadowy sadness,
    That lightly passed away;
  But I have known the substance
    Of sorrow, since that day. 
  For nevermore at twilight,
    Beside the silent mill,
  I’ll wait for you, in the falling dew,
    And hear the whip-poor-will.
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”

  But if you still remember,
    In that fair land of light,
  The pains and fears that touch us
    Along this edge of night,
  I think all earthly grieving,
    And all our mortal ill,
  To you must seem like a boy’s sad dream,
    Who hears the whip-poor-will.
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    A passing thrill—­“whippoorwill!”

H. VAN DYKE.

[16] From “The Builders, and Other Poems,” copyright, 1897, Charles Scribner’s Sons.

Fertility.

  Spirit that moves the sap in spring,
  When lusty male birds fight and sing,
  Inform my words, and make my lines
  As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines,

  Let mine be the freshening power
  Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;
  The fertilizing song be mine,
  Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.

  Let some procreant truth exhale
  From me, before my forces fail;
  Or ere the ecstatic impulse go,
  Let all my buds to blossoms blow.

  If quick, sound seed be wanting where
  The virgin soil feels sun and air,
  And longs to fill a higher state,
  There let my meanings germinate.

  Let not my strength be spilled for naught,
  But, in some fresher vessel caught,
  Be blended into sweeter forms,
  And fraught with purer aims and charms.

  Let bloom-dust of my life be blown
  To quicken hearts that flower alone;
  Around my knees let scions rise
  With heavenward-pointed destinies.

  And when I fall, like some old tree,
  And subtile change makes mould of me,
  There let earth show a fertile line
  Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine!

M. THOMPSON.

The Veery.[17]

  The moonbeams over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring,
  When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring. 
  So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie,
  I longed to hear a simpler strain,—­the wood notes of the veery.

  The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
  It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
  He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
  I only know one song more sweet,—­the vespers of the veery.