The Owlet

When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams,

And slow the hues of sunset die;

When firefly and moth go by,

And in still streams the new moon seems

Another moon and sky:

Then from the hills there comes a cry,

The owlet's cry:

A shivering voice that sobs and screams,

With terror screams:—

"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?

Who rides through the dusk and dew,

With a pair of horns,

As thin as thorns,

And face a bubble-blue?—

Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"

When night has dulled the lily's white,

And opened the moonflower's eyes;

When pale mists rise and veil the skies,

And round the height in whispering flight

The night-wind sounds and sighs:

Then in the wood again it cries,

The owlet cries:

A shivering voice that calls in fright,

In maundering fright:—

"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?

Who walks with a shuffling shoe

'Mid the gusty trees,

With a face none sees,

And a form as ghostly, too?—

Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"

When midnight leans a listening ear

And tinkles on her insect lutes;

When 'mid the roots the cricket flutes,

And marsh and mere, now far, now near,

A jack o'lantern foots:

Then o'er the pool again it hoots:

The owlet hoots:

A voice that shivers as with fear,

That cries with fear:—

"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?

Who creeps with his glow-worm crew

Above the mire

With a corpse-like fire,

As only dead men do?—

Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"