There is a haggard flitting through the night,
And stupid wings are writhing through the wind,
And then, afar, a screeching of dark fright,
Like cries of a frail conscience that has sinned.
It is the shy owl of long moonless nights,
It is the inconsolable owl who peers
With blear eyes through drear darkness, and who blights
The peace of sleep with stark foreboding fears.
The inconsolable night-bird weeping through
The gloam, the spectral bird who fears the day,
Whose panic flitting chills the dark, and who
Fills space with cries that quiver with dismay.
But thou, poor owl, an ivied steeple seest,
Where thou canst hide from dawning's garish hour--
My heart, who from the kiss of woman fleest,
Where shalt thou find the peace of some old tower?