That creeps through the broken pane;
And he starts at every passing sound,
And hastily turns the key,
And casts a hurried glance around,
And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp ground
To his god he bows the knee.
The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings,
And moans a plaintive strain,
And grimly peers with his glassy eye
Over the golden gain;