Still, still sits the owl on the hill

With never a “whit-to-whoo,”

With never a blinking eyelid,

And never a thing to do.

Still, still sits the owl on the hill

With feet locked tight on a limb.

And though the winds come roughing,

There’s never a sound from him.

For it’s motionless and staring-eyed

He’ll be till the moon rides high;

And then he’ll wheel and dip

And hoot to the open sky.

But I shall be abed by then,

And I shall never know

Just when he shakes himself awake

And circles high and low.