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 wide 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 glowworm crew Above the mire
With a corpse-light fire, As only dead men do?— Who, who, who! Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?”
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