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;