I don't like owls, I love them

Every fire of the sky in the free land

Silent as the eastern pearl of some ample height,

Steals out among the quiet decorated life,

Accustomed I shiver into a strange delay.

Rose on a transient sound with love and power,

Floating upon the shower to my sunny creed,

Ripples the rooted landscape into a smile,

Laid by a lapsing of green tangled undergrowth,

Sheer over Heart, and Nothing in every act,

Cold breezes are watch of a perpetual work:

Snapped an endless natural darkness for this time.

Alone among the Fire, the delicate go,

Every fire of the firmament at night.

How will ye prove this floor of every hour,

Shone on the mighty stream with an aged flower;

Came the brown delicate waters through my lattice,

Delaying in purpose; for the pure desire,

Some sign of an ancient artist upon the air,

Both mist and dream in the large procession of skies

Report stood suddenly a mark upon thy face,

Arose as thy breath, and from a glittering hand

Light on the meditative bending of the world,

Somehow I will feast thine upon the very time,

Part for each level with some shadow of delight.

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