Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls.

The whippoorwills are calling where The golden west is graying; "'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there— Why are you still delaying?

"He waits you where the old beech throws Its gnarly shadow over Wood-violet and the bramble rose, Frail maiden-fern and clover.

"Where elder and the sumach creep Above your garden's paling, Whereon at noon the lizards sleep Like lichens on the railing.

"Come! ere the early rising moon's Gold floods the violet valleys; Where mists, like phantom picaroons Anchor their stealthy galleys.

"Come! while the deepening amethyst Of dusk above is falling— 'Tis time to tryst! 'tis time to tryst!" The whippoorwills are calling.

They call you to these twilight ways With dewy odor dripping— Ah, girlhood, through the rosy haze Come like a moonbeam slipping.