Classic Poem

Why with so piteous a melancholy
And with so inconsolable a plaint,
As though your wistful heart were broken wholly,
Within your bosom quaint,
Do you, my little gossip of the air,
Make all the night to ring,
With your lorn quavering
As for some ancient, irremediable despair?
O-o-o! O-o-o-o!
Do you not know?
I, I alone did hear the cry,
Of Lilith in her agony
When Adam turned from her to Eve
And so for her forevermore I grieve and grieve!

O-o-o-! Lilith! Poor, poor Lilith!
That is what the screech-owl trilleth.