“Nymph, I wonder where you are going
Your hair
In the midnight air
Blowing.
Your face is a mask
Dare I ask
What be your task?

The gate’s hinges squeak
And the owl speaks,
“She may do as she will
For good or ill.
The light is on in yonder place.
Oh her face
Such passing grace”.

—

“Man why so pale of face?
Why pace
You so
To and fro?
Your eyes fixed on the clock
Straining to hear the gentle knock.
Your sweat
Carries the scent of regret.

The owl winks,
“Methinks
Some things are better left unsaid
As mere conjectures in the head.
Do they ill or well.
Be it heaven or hell
I will not tell”.