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 gleams,

A sickle in the sky;

Then from the hills there comes a cry,

The owlet's cry;

A shivering voice that sobs and screams,

That, frightened, screams:

“Who is it, who is it, who?

Who rides through the dusk and dew,

With a pair o’ horns,

As thin as thorns,

And face a bubble blue?

Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who?”

When night has dulled the lily's white,

And opened wide the primrose 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 woods again it cries,

The owlet cries;

A shivering voice that calls in fright,

In maundering fright:

“Who is it, who is it, who?

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?”

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 in fear:

“Who is it, who is it, who?

Who creeps with his glow-worm crew

Above the mire

With a corpse-light fire,

As only dead men do?

Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who?”