The Screech Owl The poet can sing of the linnet's lilt, Of lark, or of whippoorwill's wail, (lf the love-sick ache in the wood dove's coo Or the plaint of the nightingale; But 0! 'tis the little ~crecch owl for me Who hoots at the night so mournfully 1 There is never a breathless depth of dark Where his thick voice does not speak, With an oily chuckle and purr of sound Torn off in a shrill ghost-shriek; And 0! 'tis the little screech owl for me Who rattles the echoes so hollowly! When the sky throbs white with its crystal dust And the wind drags tired and slo\\', When men are asleep in the earth above And asleep 'neath the fox-fire's glow; 0! ghoulishly happy you'll find us three, The dead, and the Ii ttle screech ow I and me:
-J. c.
100
K.