Silvery spectator sheds touch of light
Tranquil forest green, black, white,
Snow settles down, Not a sound,
On this crisp, winter, night.

Like the snow, white and silent,
An owl hunts its prey,
A hungry hare looks up by chance,
Is struck by fright,
He cannot get away.

So unlucky was this glance,
To see impending doom.
There is no time for thought of flight,
Forever will that final sight
Be owl's snowy plume.

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
  Which is my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run,
  And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
    For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin by which I have won
  Others to sin? and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
  A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
    For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
  My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
Swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
  Shall shine as he shines now and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done,
    I fear no more.