The Owls
The owls that roost in the black yew
Along one limb in solemn state,
And with a red eye look you through,
Are eastern gods; they meditate.
No feather stirs on them, not one,
Until that melancholy hour
When night, supplanting the weak sun,
Resumes her interrupted power.
Their attitude instructs the wise
To shun all action, all surprise.
Suppose there passed a lovely face, —
Who even longs to follow it,
Must feel for ever the disgrace
Of having all but moved a bit.
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)
Edna? I thought this was Tonia. I kept thinking, And she says she’s not a poet…
Hah! I wish.
Mmmmmmm…
The power in that stillness! I, too, see them as sacred, holy somehow.
yes, they are so wonderful
So much love and respect…! Sigh…. Wish I saw/heard them more.
Very nice share. The owl is quite impressive. I especially like his eyes.
I love this, all of it. The poem, the photo you chose, combine perfectly. A feast for the eyes and spirit.
Thanks. I love the poem and was looking for one written by a women, when lo this one appeared in a search. I especially love the first two stanzas. Thanks for reading and commenting.