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;
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 cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his round-e-lay;
Alone and warming his five wits
The white owl in the belfry sits