Classic Poem

There is a lonely spirit
That wanders through the wood,
And tells its mournful story
In ev'ry solitude.
It comes abroad at eventide,
And hangs beside the rill,
And murmurs to the passer-by,
“Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”

Oh! 'tis a hapless spirit,
In likeness of a bird—
A grief that cannot utter
Another woful word—
A soul that seeks for sympathy—
A woe that won't be still—
A wand'ring sorrow murmuring,
“Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”