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?”
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