The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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TO THE OWL |
 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
64
TO THE OWL
I
Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth,To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?
Is it some blast that gathers in the north,
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r?
II
Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade,And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn?
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?
Or friendless Melancholy bids thee mourn?
III
Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train,To tell thy sorrows to th'unheeding gloom,
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home,
IV
Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song.
Sing on, sad mourner! To the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.
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V
Is Beauty less, when down the glowing cheekSad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to Pity's call?
VI
Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,That Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there?
That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou can't repeat,
That Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair!
VII
Nor that the treble songsters of the day,Are quite estranged, sad bird of night, from thee!
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie!
VIII
From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,While the gray walls and desert solitudes
Return each note, responsive to the gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods:
IX
There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee,Than ever lover to the nightingale,
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |