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,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
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 Lord Tennyson
Another rainy day and another of my knick knacks. I think this one also came from Indian Market in Santa Fe. Owl poems for some reason seem to be terribly long. But I finally found one that I like that wasn’t too long and by someone I had actually heard of before.