My aunt's a hollow In a half-dead tree, Whose strangling ivy Shields and shelters me.
But when dark's starlight Thrids my green domain, My plumage trembles and stirs, I wake again:
A spectral moon Silvers the world I see; Out of their daylong lairs Creep thievishly.
Night's living things. Then I, Wafted away on soundless pinions Fly; Curdling her arches With my hunting-cry: A-hooh! a-hooh: Four notes; and then, Solemn, sepulchral, cold, Four notes again, The listening dingles Of my woodland through: A-hooh! A-hooh! A-hooh!
------------The Owl; Poem by Walter De La Mare.
Reference:
McClatchy, J.D. (Ed.) On Wings of Song, Poems About Birds: New York, Everyman's Library, 2000.
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