I

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, “Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will,” Where the locust blooms are falling On the hill; The sunset’s rose is dying, And the whippoorwill is crying, “Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will;” Soft, now shrill, The whippoorwill is crying, “Whip-poor-will.”