Poems (Thaxter)/The Great White Owl

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Poems
by Celia Thaxter
The Great White Owl
4569442Poems — The Great White OwlCelia Thaxter
THE GREAT WHITE OWL.
He sat aloft on the rocky height,
Snow-white above the snow,
In the winter morning calm and bright,
And I gazed at him, below.

He faced the east, where the sunshine streamed
On the singing, sparkling sea,
And he blinked with his yellow eyes, that seemed
All sightless and blank to be.

The snow-birds swept in a whirling crowd
About him gleefully,
And piped and whistled sweet and loud,
But never a plume stirred he.

Singing they passed and away they flew
Through the brilliant atmosphere;
Cloud-like he sat, with the living blue
Of the sky behind him, clear.

"Give you good-morrow, friend," I cried.
He wheeled his large round head,
Solemn and stately, from side to side,
But never a word he said.

"O lonely creature, weird and white,
Why are you sitting there,
Like a glimmering ghost from the still midnight,
In the beautiful morning air?"

He spurned the rock with his talons strong,
No human speech brooked he;
Like a snow-flake huge he sped along
Swiftly and noiselessly.

His wide, slow-waving wings so white,
Heavy and soft did seem;
Yet rapid as a dream his flight,
And silent as a dream.

And when a distant crag he gained,
Bright-twinkling like a star,
He shook his shining plumes, and deigned
To watch me from afar.

And once again, when the evening-red
Burned dimly in the west,
I saw him motionless, his head
Bent forward on his breast.

Dark and still, 'gainst the sunset sky
Stood out his figure lone;
Crowning the bleak rock far and high,
By sad winds overblown.

Did he dream of the ice-fields, stark and drear?
Of his haunts on the Arctic shore?
Or the downy brood in his nest last year
On the coast of Labrador?

Had he fluttered the Esquimaux huts among?
How I wished he could speak to me!
Had he sailed on the icebergs, rainbow-hung,
In the open Polar Sea?

O many a tale he might have told
Of marvelous sounds and sights,
Where the world lies hopeless and dumb with cold,
Through desolate days and nights.

But with folded wings, while the darkness fell,
He sat, nor spake, nor stirred;
And charmed as if by a subtile spell,
I mused on the wondrous Bird.