Owls

What is that?... Nothing;

The leaves must fall, and falling, rustle;

That is all:

They are dead

As they fall, -

Dead at the foot of the tree;

All that can be is said.

What is it?... Nothing.

What is that?... Nothing;

A wild thing hurt but mourns in the night,

And it cries

In its dread,

Till it lies

Dead at the foot of the tree;

All that can be is said.

What is it?... Nothing.

What is that?... Ah!

A marching slow of unseen feet,

That is all:

But a bier, spread

With a pall,

Is now at the foot of the tree;

All that could be is said.

Is it... what?... Nothing.