When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill, <br />At twelve o'clock when the night is still, <br />And pale on the pools, where the creek-frogs croon, <br />Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon; <br />And under the willows, where waters lie, <br />The torch of the firefly wanders by; <br />They say that the miller walks here, walks here, <br />All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff, <br />And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh; <br />The old lame miller hung many a year: <br />When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill, <br />He walks alone by the rotting mill. <br /> <br />When the bark of the fox comes over the hill, <br />At twelve o'clock when the night is shrill, <br />And faint, on the ways where the crickets creep, <br />The starlight fails and the shadows sleep; <br />And under the willows, that toss and moan, <br />The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone; <br />They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead, <br />In a weedy space that the lilies lace, <br />A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face, <br />The miller's young wife with a gash in her head: <br />When the bark of the fox comes over the hill, <br />She floats alone by the rotting mill. <br /> <br />When the howl of the hound comes over the hill, <br />At twelve o'clock when the night is ill, <br />And the thunder mutters and forests sob, <br />And the fox-fire glows like the lamp of a Lob; <br />And under the willows, that gloom and glance, <br />The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devils' dance; <br />They say that that crime is re-acted again, <br />And each cranny and chink of the mill doth wink <br />With the light o' hell or the lightning's blink, <br />And a woman's shrieks come wild through the rain: <br />When the howl of the hound comes over the hill, <br />That murder returns to the rotting mill.<br /><br />Madison Julius Cawein<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ghost-stories/
