The Owl

Apart, thank Heaven, from all to do
To keep alive the long day through;
To imagine; think; watch; listen to;
There still remains—the heart to bless,
Exquisite pregnant Idleness.

Why, we might let all else go by
To seek its Essence till we die …

Hark, now! that Owl, a-snoring in his tree,
Till it grow dark enough for him to see.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.