Song: The Owl Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; All mock him outright, by day; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, 1509 And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight! If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the King of the night is the bold brown Owl! SONG: THE OWL WHEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] SWEET SUFFOLK OWL SWEET Suffolk owl, so trimly dight Thy note that forth so freely rolls And sings a dirge for dying souls. "Te whit! Te whoo!" Thomas Vautor (fl. 1616] THE PEWEE THE listening Dryads hushed the woods; Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods The lindens lifted to the blue: Only a little forest-brook The farthest hem of silence shook: When in the hollow shades I heard, Was it a spirit, or a bird? Or, strayed from Eden, desolate, Some Peri calling to her mate, Whom nevermore her mate would cheer? "Pe-ri! pe-ri! peer!" The Pewee Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell With plashy pour, that scarce was sound, But only quiet less profound, A stillness fresh and audible: A yellow leaflet to the ground A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, The owlet in his open door Stared roundly: while the breezes bore The plaint to far-off places drear,— "Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer!" To trace it in its green retreat I sought among the boughs in vain; And followed still the wandering strain, So melancholy and so sweet The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain. 'Twas now a sorrow in the air, Some nymph's immortalized despair His plaintive pipe some fairy played, With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!" Long-drawn and clear its closes were,— As if the hand of Music through A thread of golden gossamer: 1511 I quit the search, and sat me down And watched a little bird in suit Perched in the maple-branches, mute: With ivory pale its wings were barred, For so I found my forest bird,— Where never bluebird's plume intrudes. But thou all day complainest here,— "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!" Hast thou, too, in thy little breast, Strange longings for a happier lot,- A yearning, and a vague unrest, For something still which thou hast not?- Above her chill and mossy bier! Robin's Come! Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars Of mild bright light that gild the trees. All pleasant places still and dim: His heart, a spark of heavenly fire, Though heard not by the hurrying throng, "Pewee! pewee! peer!" John Townsend Trowbridge [1827 1513 ROBIN'S COME! FROM the elm-tree's topmost bough, Merry spring-time hastes along; Robin's come! Of the winter we are weary, Robin's come! Ring it out o'er hill and plain, Through the garden's lonely bowers, Till the green leaves dance again, Till the air is sweet with flowers! Wake the cowslips by the rill, Wake the yellow daffodil; Robin's come! |