The fitful calling of the owl, all night,
Struck like the voice of terror on her ears;
With brushing wings, about her taloned fears
Fluttered till dawn: when, as the summer gloom,
Grey-quivering, spilt in silver-showering light,
She rose and stood within the dawning room,
Shivering and pale--her long, unbraided hair
Each moment quickening to a livelier gold
About her snowy shoulders; yet, more cold
Than the still gleam of winter-frozen meres,