202 THE SCREECH OWL. 
Every living thing is creeping 
To its den, and silence keeping, 
Saving thou, the night hallooing 
With thy dismalest tu-whoo-ing! 
Nought I see, so black the night is, 
Black the storm, too, in its might is; 
But I know there lies the forest, 
Peril ever there the sorest, 
Where the wild deer-stealers wander ; 
And the ruin lieth yonder, 
Splintered tower and crumbling column, 
All among the yew-trees solemn, 
Where the toad and lizard clamber 
Into many an ancient chamber, 
And below, the black rocks under, 
Like the muttering, coming thunder, 
Lowly muttering, rolling ever, 
Passes on the fordless river :— 
Yet I see the black night only 
Covering all, so deep and lonely! 
Pr’ythee, Owl, what is’t thou’rt saying, 
So terrific and dismaying? 
Dost thou speak of loss and ruin, 
In that ominous tu-whoo-ing? 
