Ii

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?"