The Downy Owl by Edith Willis Linn Forbes

The downy owl, gray banshee of the night,
Weaving his lilt of sorrow to and fro
In the dim dawning, ere the crimson glow
Leads lusty day across the fields of light,
Awakes me with his melancholy rite,
His tremulous adagio, sweet and low,
As one who mourns a passion old as woe,
Or would too late a wounded love requite.
Hark how he whimpers in the brooding gloom,
Mocking lost joy the still, forsaken room,
The unpressed pillow where no dear head lies!
Gray banshee owl, prophet of morning skies,
Proclaim the light, and let lost rapture be
One with the forest s gloom and mystery.

From: Linn, Edith Willis, A Cycle of Sonnets, 1918, James T. White & Co: New York, p. 114.
(https://archive.org/details/cycleofsonnets00linnrich/)

Date: 1918

By: Edith Willis Linn Forbes (1865-1945)

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