In a scented wood
An owl is calling;
O'er the resting land
The night is falling;
The air is sweet
With the scent of may;
The birds are asleep,
They are waiting for day.

In the purple night
No light is showing;
O'er the silent land
A breeze is blowing,
It rustles the leaves
With a soft little sigh;
The owl is so still,
Then gives, softly, a cry.