The Screech-Owl.

When, one by one, the stars have trembled through     Eve's shadowy hues of violet, rose, and fire     As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dew     Orbs its bright beads; and, one by one, the choir     Of insects wakes on nodding bush and brier:     Then through the woods where wandering winds pursue     A ceaseless whisper like an eery lyre     Struck in the Erl-king's halls, where ghosts and dreams     Hold revelry, your goblin music screams,     Shivering and strange as some strange thought come true.     Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees,     Or those fantastic fungi of the woods     That crowd the dampness are you kin to these     In some mysterious way that still eludes     My fancy? you, who haunt the solitudes     With witch-like wailings? voice, that seems to freeze     Out of the darkness, like the scent which broods,     Rank and rain-sodden, over autumn nooks,     That, to the mind, might well suggest such looks,     Ghastly and gray, as pale clairvoyance sees.     You people night with weirdness: lone and drear,     Beneath the stars, you cry your wizard runes;     And in the haggard silence, filled with fear,     Your shuddering hoot seems some bleak grief that croons     Mockery and terror; or, beneath the moon's     Cloud-hurrying glimmer, to the startled ear,     Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes,     The witless wit of outcast Edgar there     In the wild night; or, wan with all despair,     The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.