The Owlet

I     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?" II     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?" III     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?"