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. |