The Owl

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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,
     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 roundelay,
     Twice or thrice his roundelay;
          Alone and warming his five wits,
          The white owl in the belfry sits.

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