Volume Iii Part 53 (2/2)

Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black, In some forgotten garden, ages back,

Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, Desire unspeakably to be a bird?

Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904]

SONG: 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 c.o.c.k 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 Tennyson [1809-1892]

SWEET SUFFOLK OWL

Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight With feathers, like a lady bright; Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night, ”Te whit! Te whoo!”

Thy note that forth so freely rolls With shrill command the mouse controls; And sings a dirge for dying souls.

”Te whit! Te whoo!”

Thomas Vautor [fl. 1616]

THE PEWEE

The listening Dryads hushed the woods; The boughs were thick, and thin and few The golden ribbons fluttering through; Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods The lindens lifted to the blue: Only a little forest-brook The farthest hem of silence shook: When in the hollow shades I heard,-- Was it a spirit, or a bird?

Or, strayed from Eden, desolate, Some Peri calling to her mate, Whom nevermore her mate would cheer?

Pe-ri! pe-ri! peer!”

Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell With plashy pour, that scarce was sound, But only quiet less profound, A stillness fresh and audible: A yellow leaflet to the ground Whirled noiselessly: with wing of gloss A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, And, wavering brightly over it, Sat like a b.u.t.terfly alit: The owlet in his open door Stared roundly: while the breezes bore The plaint to far-off places drear,-- ”Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer!”

To trace it in its green retreat I sought among the boughs in vain; And followed still the wandering strain, So melancholy and so sweet The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain.

'Twas now a sorrow in the air, Some nymph's immortalized despair Haunting the woods and waterfalls; And now, at long, sad intervals, Sitting unseen in dusky shade, His plaintive pipe some fairy played, With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,-- ”Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!”

Long-drawn and clear its closes were,-- As if the hand of Music through The somber robe of Silence drew A thread of golden gossamer: So pure a flute the fairy blew.

Like beggared princes of the wood, In silver rags the birches stood; The hemlocks, lordly counselors, Were dumb; the st.u.r.dy servitors, In beechen jackets patched and gray, Seemed waiting spellbound all the day That low, entrancing note to hear,-- ”Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!”

I quit the search, and sat me down Beside the brook, irresolute, And watched a little bird in suit Of sober olive, soft and brown, Perched in the maple-branches, mute: With greenish gold its vest was fringed, Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged, With ivory pale its wings were barred, And its dark eyes were tender-starred.

<script>