The Owl


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.