The Owl

In the hollow tree, in the old grey tower,
The spectral Owl doth dwell ;
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk, — he's abroad and well !
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,
The boldest will shrink away !
O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl !

And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom ;
And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom !
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree, so still ;
But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill !
O — when the moon shines, and dogs do howl !
Then, then is the joy of the Horned Owl !

Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight !
The Owl hath his share of good :
If a prisoner he be in the broad day-light,
He is Lord in the dark green-wood !
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride ;
Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside !
So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing, Ho ! for the reign of the Horned Owl !
We know not alway
Who are Kings by day,
But the King of the night is the bold brown Owl !