The Demon Lover

The moon looks cold
On the withered wold;
The wind blows fierce and free:
The thin snow sifts
And stings and drifts,
Blown by the haunted tree.

The gnarled tree groans;
And sighs and moans,
And shudders to its roots:
Is it the fear
Of a footstep near?
Or the owl in its top that hoots?