A Barred Owl
The warping night-air having brought the boom
Of an owl's voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
"Who cooks for you and then "Who cooks for you?"
Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.
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