THE NIGHT-HAWK
            Charles G. D. Roberts
                p. 1893
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WHEN frogs make merry the pools of May,
          And sweet, oh sweet,
          Through the twilight dim
          Is the vesper hymn
Their myriad mellow pipes repeat
    As the rose-dusk dies away.
    Then hark, the night-hawk!
      (For now is the elfin hour.)
    With melting skies o'er him,
    All summer before him,
    His wild brown mate to adore him,
          By the spell of his power
          He summons the apples in flower.

In the high pale heaven he flits and calls;
          Then swift, oh swift,
          On sounding wing
          That hums like a string,
To the quiet glades where the gnat-clouds drift
    And the night-moths flicker, he falls.
    Then hark, the night-hawk!
      (For now is the elfin hour.)
    With melting skies o'er him,
    All summer before him,
    His wild brown mate to adore him,
      By the spell of his power
      He summons the apples in flower.


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** contributory thanks to Sam Droege **

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