When the mossy vistas call to the rain To ravish their fern-fronds green, Thro’ the dripping hazels they dart again, These points of damascene! And each root holds blood in its amber cup, Holds blood in its emerald bowl, While the White Owl covers silence up As death covers up the soul.

The great White Owl, he passes by Like a ghost among the guests. The wood-mice watch him with frightened eys; The birds crouch in their nests; And Silence asleep on her lichen bed, Asleep on her fungus sheet, Feels those feathers sink on her drooping head, And fall on her tender feet!