And rife with bloody passions fell,
Portrayed in cruel beak and grip,
He thus in classic faith had borne
Unto his cabin hearth forlorn,
For mystical companionship.
So, on this night of lonely longing,
While shadows of the past were thronging
With many a mute and wan reproof,
Upon a table, half in shade,
The owl, with all his eyes arrayed,
To dulling slumber still aloof,
Discreetly sat, as if he too
Saw ghosts of things in long review.
Under the great firs' tasselled tent,
When dusk had come and dews were sprent,
Again he plied his gory trade;
Soft as a whisper in the dark
He flit Led swiftly to his mark,
And there was not a sound to tell
What helpless victim instant fell.
Portrayed in cruel beak and grip,
He thus in classic faith had borne
Unto his cabin hearth forlorn,
For mystical companionship.
So, on this night of lonely longing,
While shadows of the past were thronging
With many a mute and wan reproof,
Upon a table, half in shade,
The owl, with all his eyes arrayed,
To dulling slumber still aloof,
Discreetly sat, as if he too
Saw ghosts of things in long review.
Under the great firs' tasselled tent,
When dusk had come and dews were sprent,
Again he plied his gory trade;
Soft as a whisper in the dark
He flit Led swiftly to his mark,
And there was not a sound to tell
What helpless victim instant fell.
The dark-haired dreamer drank once more
A toast to pleasures gone before,
Then from the headstones of the past,
In rain and sunshine fading fast,
Turned to the coming time to grace
The portent of its misted face.
What could he see in that dark glass?
Only his pale conjectures pass,
The old procession of his dreams,
Fabrics of fleeting shades and beams
A toast to pleasures gone before,
Then from the headstones of the past,
In rain and sunshine fading fast,
Turned to the coming time to grace
The portent of its misted face.
What could he see in that dark glass?
Only his pale conjectures pass,
The old procession of his dreams,
Fabrics of fleeting shades and beams
