Owls

I'm sure my readers need no reminding that today is International Owl Awareness Day. This is good news for me, because (a) I'm very fond of owls, and used to be able to make a pretty convincing Tawny Owl hoot, though the power seems to have deserted me now, and (b) it gives me an excuse to share one of my favourite Edward Thomas poems, 'The Owl' – 

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;

Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof

Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest

Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,

Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.

All of the night was quite barred out except

An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,

No merry note, nor cause of merriment,

But one telling me plain what I escaped

And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,

Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice

Speaking for all who lay under the stars,

Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

And here is another, very different poem titled 'The Owl', by Walter de la Mare, its tortured syntax evoking a tortured state of mind – a long way from the poet's more familiar quiet lyricism:

What if to edge of dream,
When the spirit is come,
Shriek the hunting owl,
And summon it home —
To the fear-stirred heart
And the ancient dread
Of man, when cold root or stone
Pillowed roofless head?

Clangs not at last the hour
When roof shelters not;
And the ears are deaf,
And all fears forgot:
Since the spirit too far has fared
For summoning scream
Of any strange fowl on earth
To shatter its dream?

And here is yet one more poem titled 'The Owl', a charming and musical lyric by 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.