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Why would someone be interested in owl poems? Because of its attributes, the answer to this question is yes. An upright attitude, a big and wide head, binocular eyesight, binaural hearing, and feathers designed for quiet flying are all common owl features.
The owl has a lot of mysterious facts. Few of them can swivel their heads almost completely around—but not quite. Owls have tubular eyes that are farsighted and have the super-powerful hearing.
Is there anything you can get from reading owl poems? Definitely. Reading poems about owl might help you develop your personality or modify one or two of your characteristics. The size and form of owls vary depending on the species.
These modifications allow owls to seek their favorite prey with ease while also allowing them to deal well with their surroundings. You will undoubtedly get a sense of adapting after reading owl poems.
Can you imagine that something like the owl and the pussycat poem also exists?
You May Also Be Interested In:
Best Owl Poems
Collection of best owl poems includes a poem in October by Dylan Thomas, the moon and The Yew tree by Sylvia Plath, Suicide Note by Anne, and Elegy: Walking the Line by Edgar Bowers.
1. The Owl
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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.
2. The Great Brown Owl
by Aunt Effie
The Brown Owl sits in the ivy-bush,
And she looketh wondrous wise,
With a horny beak beneath her cowl,
And a pair of large round eyes.
She sat all day on the selfsame spray,
From sunrise till sunset;
And the dim grey light, it was all too bright
For the Owl to see in yet.
“Jenny Owlet, Jenny Owlet,” said a merry little bird,
“They say you’re wondrous wise;
But I don’t think you see, though you’re looking at ME
With your large, round, shining eyes.”
But night came soon, and the pale white moon
Rolled high up in the skies;
And the great Brown Owl flew away in her cowl,
With her large, round, shining eyes.
3. A Barred Owl
by Richard Wilbur
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.
4. What Sees the Owl
by Elizabeth Sears Bates
His velvet wing sweeps through the night:
With magic of his wondrous sight
He oversees his vast domain,
And king supreme of night doth reign.
Around him lies a silent world,
The day with all its noise is furled;
When every shadow seems a moon,
And every light a sun at noon.
How welcome from the blinding glare
Is the cool grayness of the air!
How sweet the power to reign, a king,
When day his banishment will bring!
For him the colorless moonlight
Burns brilliant, an aurora bright;
The forest’s deepest gloom stands clear
From mystery and helpless fear.
He sees the silver cobwebs spun,
The dewdrops set the flowers have won,
The firefly’s gleam offends his sight,
It seems a spark of fierce sunlight.
Clear winter nights when he so bold,
“For all his feathers, is a-cold,”
Sees the Frost-spirit fling his lace,
And fashion icicles apace.
At his weird call afar and faint
A sleepy echo, like the quaint
Last notes of some wild chant, replies
And mocks his solitude—and dies.
5. The Owl
by Bryan Waller Procter
In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,
The spectral Owl doth dwell;
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk he’s abroad and well!
Not a bird of the forest e’er mates with him;
All mock him outright, by day;
But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away!
O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the Hornéd Owl!
And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood’s deep gloom;
And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom;
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still;
But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill!
O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl,
Then, then, is the joy of the Hornéd Owl!
Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight!
The Owl hath his share of good:
If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride;
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside!
So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing, ho! for the reign of the Hornéd Owl!
We know not alway
Who are kings by day,
But the King of the night is the bold brown Owl!
6. Owl
by Jean Whitfield
Composed by the roadside
he weighed a level branch down
knowing he was beautiful
the clear white sweep of him
tufted ears and round orange head
he blinked his eyes
rested iron claws easy
let us see enough of him
and finding undercurrents
lifted slowly, wafted wide wings
poised in the even air
figure skated on the breeze
allowed himself to fall
a small space gracefully
and rolled the lazy evening
forward and backward
over the hump in the road
he hung on those sunken eyes
swung over the field-hedge
Poured down from that low sky
– was gone.
7. Suicide Note
by Anne Sexton
You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is
a matter of my life’ – Artaud
‘At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers
to my daughters and their daughters’ – Anonymous
Better,
despite the worms talking to
the mare’s hoof in the field;
better,
despite the season of young girls
dropping their blood;
better somehow
to drop myself quickly
into an old room.
Better (someone said)
not to be born
and far better
not to be born twice
at thirteen
where the boardinghouse,
each year a bedroom,
caught fire.
Dear friend,
I will have to sink with hundreds of others
on a dumbwaiter into hell.
I will be a light thing.
I will enter death
like someone’s lost optical lens.
Life is half enlarged.
The fish and owls are fierce today.
Life tilts backward and forward.
Even the wasps cannot find my eyes.
Yes,
eyes that were immediate once.
Eyes that have been truly awake,
eyes that told the whole story—
poor dumb animals.
Eyes that were pierced,
little nail heads,
light blue gunshots.
And once with
a mouth like a cup,
clay colored or blood colored,
open like the breakwater
for the lost ocean
and open like the noose
for the first head.
Once upon a time
my hunger was for Jesus.
O my hunger! My hunger!
Before he grew old
he rode calmly into Jerusalem
in search of death.
This time
I certainly
do not ask for understanding
and yet I hope everyone else
will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps
on the surface of Echo Lake;
when moonlight,
its bass note turned up loud,
hurts some building in Boston,
when the truly beautiful lie together.
I think of this, surely,
and would think of it far longer
if I were not… if I were not
at that old fire.
I could admit
that I am only a coward
crying me me me
and not mention the little gnats, the moths,
forced by circumstance
to suck on the electric bulb.
But surely you know that everyone has a death,
his own death,
waiting for him.
So I will go now
without old age or disease,
wildly but accurately,
knowing my best route,
carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years,
never asking, “Where are we going?”
We were riding (if I’d only known)
to this.
Dear friend,
please do not think
that I visualize guitars playing
or my father arching his bone.
I do not even expect my mother’s mouth.
I know that I have died before—
once in November, once in June.
How strange to choose June again,
so concrete with its green breasts and bellies.
Of course guitars will not play!
The snakes will certainly not notice.
New York City will not mind.
At night the bats will beat on the trees,
knowing it all,
seeing what they sensed all day.
8. Elegy: Walking the Line
by Edgar Bowers
Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line,
The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum
Superb above the cabin, along the wall—
Stones gathered from the level field nearby
When first we cleared it. (Angry bumblebees
Stung the two mules. They kicked. Thirteen, I ran.)
And then the field: thread-leaf maple, deciduous
Magnolia, hybrid broom, and, further down,
In light shade, one Franklinia Alatamaha
In solstice bloom, all white, most graciously.
On the sunnier slope, the wild plums that my mother
Later would make preserves of, to give to friends
Or sell, in autumn, with the foxgrape, quince,
Elderberry, and muscadine. Around
The granite overhang, moist den of foxes;
Gradually up a long hill, high in pine,
Park-like, years of dry needles on the ground,
And dogwood, slopes the settlers terraced; pine
We cut at Christmas, berries, hollies, anise,
And cones for sale in Mister Haymore’s yard
In town, below the Courthouse Square. James Haymore,
One of the two good teachers at Boys’ High,
Ironic and demanding, chemistry;
Mary Lou Culver taught us English: essays,
Plot summaries, outlines, meters, kinds of clauses
(Noun, adjective, and adverb, five at a time),
Written each day and then revised, and she
Up half the night to read them once again
Through her pince-nez, under a single lamp.
Across the road, on a steeper hill, the settlers
Set a house, unpainted, the porch fallen in,
The road a red clay strip without a bridge,
A shallow stream that liked to overflow.
Oliver Brand’s mules pulled our station wagon
Out of the gluey mire, earth’s rust. Then, here
And there, back from the road, the specimen
Shrubs and small trees my father planted, some
Taller than we were, some in bloom, some berried,
And some we still brought water to. We always
Paused at the weed-filled hole beside the beech
That, one year, brought forth beech nuts by the thousands,
A hole still reminiscent of the man
Chewing tobacco in among his whiskers
My father happened on, who, discovered, told
Of dreaming he should dig there for the gold
And promised to give half of what he found.
During the wars with Germany and Japan,
Descendents of the settlers, of Oliver Brand
And of that man built Flying Fortresses
For Lockheed, in Atlanta; now they build
Brick mansions in the woods they left, with lawns
To paved and lighted streets, azaleas, camellias
Blooming among the pines and tulip trees—
Mercedes Benz and Cadillac Republicans.
There was another stream further along
Divided through a marsh, lined by the fence
We stretched to posts with Mister Garner’s help
The time he needed cash for his son’s bail
And offered all his place. A noble spring
Under the oak root cooled his milk and butter.
He called me “honey,” working with us there
(My father bought three acres as a gift),
His wife pale, hair a country orange, voice
Uncanny, like a ghost’s, through the open door
Behind her, chickens scratching on the floor.
Barred Rocks, our chickens; one, a rooster, splendid
Sliver and grey, red comb and long sharp spurs,
Once chased Aunt Jennie as far as the daphne bed
The two big king snakes were familiars of.
My father’s dog would challenge him sometimes
To laughter and applause. Once, in Stone Mountain,
Travelers, stopped for gas, drove off with Smokey;
Angrily, grievingly, leaving his work, my father
Traced the car and found them way far south,
Had them arrested and, bringing Smokey home,
Was proud as Sherlock Holmes, and happier.
Above the spring, my sister’s cats, black Amy,
Grey Junior, down to meet us. The rose trees,
Domestic, Asiatic, my father’s favorites.
The bridge, marauding dragonflies, the bullfrog,
Camellias cracked and blackened by the freeze,
Bay tree, mimosa, mountain laurel, apple,
Monkey pine twenty feet high, banana shrub,
The owls’ tall pine curved like a flattened S.
The pump house Mort and I built block by block,
Smooth concrete floor, roof pale aluminum
Half-covered by a clematis, the pump
Thirty feet down the mountain’s granite foot.
Mort was the hired man sent to us by Fortune,
Childlike enough to lead us. He brought home,
Although he could not even drive a tractor,
Cheated, a worthless car, which we returned.
When, at the trial to garnishee his wages,
Frank Guess, the judge, Grandmother’s longtime neighbor,
Whose children my mother taught in Cradle Roll,
Heard Mort’s examination, he broke in
As if in disbelief on the bank’s attorneys:
“Gentlemen, must we continue this charade?”
Finally, past the compost heap, the garden,
Tomatoes and sweet corn for succotash,
Okra for frying, Kentucky Wonders, limas,
Cucumbers, squashes, leeks heaped round with soil,
Lavender, dill, parsley, and rosemary,
Tithonia and zinnias between the rows;
The greenhouse by the rock wall, used for cuttings
In late spring, frames to grow them strong for planting
Through winter into summer. Early one morning
Mort called out, lying helpless by the bridge.
His ashes we let drift where the magnolia
We planted as a stem divides the path
The others lie, too young, at Silver Hill,
Except my mother. Ninety-five, she lives
Three thousand miles away, beside the bare
Pacific, in rooms that overlook the Mission,
The Riviera, and the silver range
La Cumbre east. Magnolia grandiflora
And one druidic live oak guard the view.
Proudly around the walls, she shows her paintings
Of twenty years ago: the great oak’s arm
Extended, Zeuslike, straight and strong, wisteria
Tangled among the branches, amaryllis
Around the base; her cat, UC, at ease
In marigolds; the weeping cherry, pink
And white arms like a blessing to the blue
Bird feeder Mort made; cabin, scarlet sweet gum
Superb when tribes migrated north and south.
Alert, still quick of speech, a little blind,
Active, ready for laughter, open to fear,
Pity, and wonder that such things may be,
Some Sundays, I think, she must walk the line,
Aunt Jennie, too, if she were still alive,
And Eleanor, whose story is untold,
Their presences like muses, prompting me
In my small study, all listening to the sea,
All of one mind, the true posterity.
Famous Owl Poems
Many owl poems by famous poets are there in existence. A few famous owl poems include the ballad of the white horse by Chesterton, Gk and the owl, and the sparrow by Trumbull.
1. My Heart’s Little Ditty
by Liberty Robbins
If ever there were a winner here
It would be Me, Myself, and I
The one you have so chosen
To hold beside you under nighttime sky
While owls hoot a lullaby
And my heart cries out a little ditty
Goodbye says my heart
To the fear, the
Loneliness,
The unrest, so unsettled in my soul
2. Snowy Owl
by David Lessard
Out of the great, green, grove of trees,
In the darkness of the night;
The snowy owl came sllenty by,
A graceful poem in flight.
Out of the shadows of the dark,
When the day is finished and done;
The swift, hurried flight of the owl takes place,
Out on its midnight run.
Out of the great, green, grove of trees,
As fast as any clock can go,
The wings beat hard and fast,
And rustles the fallen snow.
The snowy owl, a prince of a bird,
It’s dominance reigns supreme;
Out of the blackness that covers me,
Out of my thoughts and dreams.
Out of the great, green, grove of trees,
It glides with a mystic wing;
Out of the night that swallows it,
To see it, would make your heart sing.
3. Noto Bene
by David Smalling
The light limps homeward
I have sundry thoughts of you
You would miss this too
The swallows calling
From the thatched roof of childhood
No moon rise tonight
Clouds are curtains here
Nor moon, nor joy can cross them
Owls mourn far away
I know you trembled
Not when sea-bound the willow wept
No diamond rot
Beautiful and bright
Are words defining coldness too
Or color of snow
My hostage thought yearns
For pillowed breast and good rest
The frail dream of you
4. The Fern Owl’s Nest
by John Clare
The weary woodman rocking home beneath
His tightly banded faggot wonders oft
While crossing over the furze-crowded heath
To hear the fern owl’s cry that whews aloft
In circling whirls and often by his head
Wizzes as quick as thought and ill and rest
As through the rustling ling with heavy tread
He goes nor heeds he tramples near its nest
That underneath the furze or squatting thorn
Lies hidden on the ground and teasing round
That lonely spot she wakes her jarring noise
To the unheeding waste till mottled morn
Fills the red East with daylight’s coming sounds
And the heath’s echoes mocks the herding boys
5. The Owls
by Charles Baudelaire
Among the black yews, their shelter,
the owls are ranged in a row,
like alien deities, the glow,
of their red eyes pierces. They ponder.
They perch there without moving,
till that melancholy moment
when quenching the falling sun,
the shadows are growing.
Their stance teaches the wise
to fear, in this world of ours,
all tumult, and all movement:
Mankind drunk on brief shadows
always incurs a punishment
for his longing to stir, and go.
6. Sweet Halloween
by Russell Sivey
Pleas for help
Come on deaf ears
Near the old house
Bats roam throughout property
Taking blood where possible
The calm black cats
Take up with the neighbors
Where rats live
They commune with the owls
That love innocent children
Spiders spin webs
Near the entrance to the house
Of an old witch
Where potions are for sale
That steals blood for her soul
7. An Owl, A Key, And A Portal Up A Tree
by Jemia de Blondeville
Since i’d seen Narnia, viewed within a small box
I’d convinced myself it was real
And desired to one day venture
Into this wild, and wonderful place
I spent my youth, venturing into wardrobes
But to no avail, and oft
Evicted from a host of furniture shops
Their owners viewing me with disdain
Or considered me slightly insane
But i was on a quest
And therefore, wouldst do my best
Then one curious day
A very old small ancient looking key
Mysteriously came into my possession
I was convinced it was related to my quest
But a few more years passed me bye
Yet not once did i give up my search
Until one dark, and dusty evening
Under the affluence of incahol!
I took a short cut through a small park
After first absent mindedly
Using the old key to unlock the gate
So for a lark, i entered this park
Wherein i could hear the too-wit too-woo of an owl
I echoed back the too-wit too-woo
Too-wit too-woo to you too, and giggled foolishly to myself
Then, to my surprise, the owl spoke
“I’m fine thank you for asking”
I nearly fell forwards onto my back
Then backwards onto my front
My head was spinning, and my legs felt slack
But eventually regained some composure
I said to the owl “did you just speak?”
“i’m sure i heard words uttered from your beak”
” Yes!” said the owl, with a squeak
“And i know the way, to a place you seek”
Yet my enthusiasm, in my search for Narnia
Had taken me to explore myself
And so now, here i was talking to a talking owl
So maybe now, i had lost my sanity
And madness was to become a regular companion
Here i was, a woman alone in a park
A very dark lonely park
Talking to a talking owl
So i thought, why not
What did i have to lose?
But first, i had to ask the owl
A very important question
“Is it true that owls are wise?”
The owl too-witted, and too-wood
And ate some more mouse that it had caught
Whilst i’d been deliberating
The owl replied, “some of us are, and some of us aren’t”
“It’s for you to decide, using your own wisdom, if you have it?”
Good point, thought i
The owl spoke again “if i tell you,that to gain access to Narnia”
“You first have to climb to the top of this tree”
“On the top branch, you’ll find the key”
“And when you climb down, and not fall”
“The key will answer your Narnia call”
The owl of course, was right
And despite the night
Then climbed to the top of the tree
Next morning, i was awoken
Pretty much where i’d fallen
The ambulance lady said
“You seem to be okay, and luckily no knock on the head!”
” Were you on drugs, or some such thing?”
“No!” i mumbled “just to much to drink!”
“Well, we’ll take you back, and check you over”
“And just a quick question, if that’s okay?”
“Fire away, i heard myself say”
“Well it’s normally teenagers, that come to Owl Park”
“But none have ever come through the gate with a key”
“All have been trying to access a strange, and magical land”
“Yes!” i confessed
“I even imagined, i’d conversed with an owl!”
And i started to laugh at my foolishness
“Methinks i probably drank a bit to much”
“And my imagination, on overload, added the extra touch”
“Well” said the ambulance lady, with a smile
“We all make mistakes, welcome back to Narnia”
And from a tree, i heard the owl speak
“so glad you made it, and if you wish to return to Earth”
“I’ll be back in a week!”
Short Owl Poems
When it comes to reading, it is preferable to have exact content. Still point 45, Annoying owl, October twilight, and the lake are among the many brilliant poets’ contributions to a collection of short owl poems.
1. Wise Old Owl
by Jack Ellison
You can never fool this mangy old dude
A wise old owl you should never pooh pooh
Can recite the alphabet
Backwards no sweat
Standing in line at MacDonald’s totally nude
2. Limerick: There was an Old Man with a owl
by Edward Lear
There was an Old Man with a owl,
Who continued to bother and howl;
He sat on a rail
And imbibed bitter ale,
Which refreshed that Old Man and his owl.
3. Sweet Suffolk Owl
by Thomas Vautor
Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
With feathers, like a lady bright;
Thou sing’st alone, sitting by night,
“Te whit! Te whoo!”
Thy note that forth so freely rolls
With shrill command the mouse controls;
And sings a dirge for dying souls.
“Te whit! Te whoo!”
4. Pink Haired Witch Who Instructs Owls
by PinkFaerie5
Pink haired witch has a mystical way
She calls owls to her during the day
They are supposed to be nocturnal right?
But she has an enormous mystical light
They fly in and get their directions from her
She has a heart of gold, so her ideas are pure.
The owls do her bidding at night in every way,
But they get their instructions during the day.
5. The Owl, the Eel and the Warming-Pan
by Laura E. Richards
The owl and the eel and the warming-pan,
They went to call on the soap-fat man.
The soap-fat man he was not within:
He’d gone for a ride on his rolling-pin.
So they all came back by the way of the town,
And turned the meeting-house upside down.
Funny Owl Poems
When someone asks for funny owl poems, one of the poems that springs to mind is the owl and the fox. A story where fox leads owls into danger when they run into a frozen lake.
1. Night owl
by Dr. Upma A. Sharma
Wake up all the night,
Asleep whole day bright,
Am I a night owl ?
Ward of seriously sick,
Moving my neck at three-sixty is a trick,
Am I a night owl ?
Disease in fluffy plumage,
Prey to hooked talons’ curettage,
I am a night owl !
Aboard in the black hours,
Be dark sky or glitter of stars,
I am a night owl .
Inheriting the mystery and magic of night,
Taking a noiseless flight,
Blessed are the night owls !
2. Oh, Funny Night Owl – LOL
by Andrea Dietrich
Oh, Funny Night Owl – LOL
Oh, funny night owl; I relate
to you. I also stay up late!
My eyes, like yours, are mellow green
and staring too, but at a screen.
I stare at E-mails and TV
until I know that finally
I must retire myself to bed
and rest my weary night owl head.
I feel so rotten when I wake
I have to do a double take.
I see the clock. It’s eight a.m.
I sit up grumbling, “Damn, oh, Damn.”
Then brimming with new morning cheer,
I drag myself before the mirror
yet frown to see upon my face
those little lines I can’t erase.
Oh, funny night owl. We’re not wise
with circles underneath our eyes!
And now I get to look like hell
because I love the night so well.
3. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
by Edward Lear
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
II
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
4. A Funny Owl
by Ann Smart
In the furrows of my brow
Sat a very funny owl
What a hoot!
Looking so cute
In the mirror
She wasn’t there.
Observing Parliament
She was too busy
To appear.
5. Hoot E. Owl Esq
by Tom Wright
A scholarly old owl in the tree sat high,
Calling out to all, is any wiser than I?
He’d read his book,
From his overlook,
Whoo whoo ha hoo, was his erie cry.
Wisdom and Owl Poems
Poems about owls and wisdom were a real blast to write about. A Wise Old Owl poem, written by John D Rockefeller, is one of the wise owl poems with a great message.
1. Wise Old Owl
by Anonymous
A wise old owl sat in an oak,
The more he heard, the less he spoke;
The less he spoke, the more he heard;
Why aren’t we all like that wise old bird?
2. Owls, Silent Magic In Flight
by Robert Lindley
Owls in flight glide so deadly silent
prey dies so quickly and violent
Claws just as sharp as a razor knife
nightime is the owl’s hooting life!
Resting in tall trees in the hollow
the night’s moon they have to follow
No shrieks as they swoop down on prey
owl’s eating demands business not play!
A beauty shines with feathers and eyes
smooth flight in dark forested skies
Owls are held to be old and very wise
to love and admire if one simply tries!
A treasure to love and attempt to protect
Tragic if we fail due to ignorance and neglect!
3. The Owls
by Charles Baudelaire
Under the overhanging yews,
The dark owls sit in solemn state,
Like stranger gods; by twos and twos
Their red eyes gleam.
They meditate.
Motionless thus they sit and dream
Until that melancholy hour
When, with the sun’s last fading gleam,
The nightly shades assume their power.
From their still attitude the wise
Will learn with terror to despise
All tumult, movement, and unrest;
For he who follows every shade,
Carries the memory in his breast,
Of each unhappy journey made.
4. The Owls Wisdom
by Edward Webb
The famous sound that comes in summer,
the chorus that comes with each morn,
not where your hear this calling, welcoming the stars in all nights form,
a bird though it is, owns a call that is loudest heard,
for no other song by beak is sung as is this raptorial birds,
so unchallenged the hooting and twooing are eerily in dark heard,
of the stealth winged owl calling,
not shown to our eyes but by ears heard,
a song not for days calling,
but solo sung to the even black,
draped in the silver shimmers of night,
from oaks confidently unknowingly sat.
showing her wisdom come dawn,
when the tweets to the east signal daylight,
unique in her wisdom, not like majority,
and on eastern blush,
takes to roost on her silent wing,
and waits for the quit of the dusk
5. Learn From The Owl!
by Narasimha Murthy MG
LEARN FROM THE OWL!
Many of us think of the owl
As a foolish, ugly fowl:
It can neither strut like a peacock,
Flaunting colourful plumes,
Nor, like the shy nightingale,
Sweetly sing, every spring:
But the sages of ancient Greece,
Seeing the night bird’s virtues rare,
Said nothing foul about the owl,
Admired its bright round eyes,
Sharp and keen, able to see its way
And fly in the darkness of night:
Eyes, quite strange, looking not sideways,
But always straight and always right
And quickly turn its agile neck
And see all things happening
Behind its back as well as front!
In all directions ,the owl can see
But, from different angles do we ever see?
Boastful humans, full of pride,
Who speak ill of the humble owl
Can scarcely match the skilful owl,
And a poet who loved this little bird, wrote –
“A wise old owl sat on an oak,
The more he saw, the less he spoke,
The less he spoke the more he heard,
Why can’t we be, like the wise old bird!?”
6. The Owl And The Fieldmouse
by Mark Dillon
The owl ventured out from his barn perch
to search the forest floor.
To get some fresh air and exercise
and some fresh food for to score.
When all at once he saw a mouse
who looked just like the winner.
Thinking if he acted swiftly enough.
He would have his dinner.
The mouse was foraging near his home
amongst the leaves and clutter.
But then he saw the shadow appear
and heard the feathers flutter.
He knew right then to make his escape,
that he must keep his cool.
And foil the owls stealthy attack
and make him look the fool.
The owl came in fast and low.
His tallons as sharp as steel.
The mouse he feigned a sharp right turn,
then pulled a fast left wheel.
The owl flew past just a glance away
disgust upon its face’
The mouse ran home into its hole,
relieved to win this race.
And so it goes, the quest goes on.
Today the mouse is the winner.
The owl went back to its perch
with the rat he caught for dinner.
7. Lost Duck
by William Worthless
there was a little duck he took a stroll one day
it started getting dark and duck he lost his way
it was really black duck he couldnt see
he began to cry very scared was he
then a big white owl who was flying by
he had seen the duck and had heard him cry
owl was very wise and knew what to do
down towards the duck owl he gently flew
duck he told the owl how he lost his way
when the darkness fell he had gone astray
dont worry said the owl i can see at night
just you follow me i will be your light.
after quite some time owl he found a pond
filled with lots ducks in a field beyond
duck he was so happy he was home once more
back with all his family where he was before.
duck he thanked the owl for helping with his plight
owl he waved goodbye and flew in to night.
duck he settled down and never more did stray
thinks about the owl to this very day
Love and Owl Poems
Poems about owls about love are even a real thing? Yes, it is. A poem that exists is Love like an owl by Antoine La Najja. It talks about the way an owl love.
1. My Wish
by James Fraser
Good morning to you
On this lovely day
Independence is the word
If i may say
I wish i was there
To share with you
A kiss on your cheek
And say how do you do
Take you to lunch
Spend the day
In the warm sunshine
The American way
In the evening we will fish
As hunter gatherers do
Play some music
A dance for two
Into the night
As the owls hoot
Skinny dipping
In our birthday suits
Dried and refreshed
A nightcap for two
As we lie on the bed
Just me and you
But the toll of the day
Tires us so
With your head on my chest
We fall into dreamy flow
2. Barn Owl’s Serenade
by Ariza
In the early morning
Before the sun rises
One then two voices
Call out to the dark
Their duet to the stars
Is a melody rarely heard.
Feathers drenched in moonlight
Shroud their bodies in silence
I wonder what they sang of,
I wonder if they knew.
Two of them, two of us.
Good morning, my love.
3. Autumn’s Fall
by William Darnell Sr.
Two silhouettes together,
under the light of the moon.
The hooting of owls
is singing a scary tune.
Dark shadows fly past us,
but your arms hold me tight.
With thoughts on your love,
I lose fear for the night.
The pumpkin that glows
on the steps by my door.
It seems to be smiling,
makes me longing for more.
The moonlight in the sky
shines down on the ground.
Glistening the leaves,
that covers the ground.
4. My Old Companion
by Sunlite Wanter
Once you arched where children play,
Heard the laughter and slapping of tether balls;
Roads made of sand with little boy sounds
A long time ago.
You have been my friend, my loyal protector,
Though storms have gnarled your limbs.
Home to owls, blue jays and sparrows,
Your friends, my friends.
I’ve watched your siblings’ peeling bark,
And I believe I heard your cries,
As cracks appeared and chainsaws neared,
You had to say goodbyes.
As long as you will umbrella my head,
As long as you will whisper your truths,
Through seasons’ breezes and your lot in life,
I will love you.
5. So Close
by Joe Maverick
They are flowing like linen,
Like water; in the air
And the cosmos above,
They can fill the soul to its weal and whole
With echo, with sensations,
Or the sense of true love,
Not just a skin-deep (feeling) deceitfully leaving
An inner dimension that yearns for a teaching…
The essence of anger..! A view of green pasture,
At three in the morning
As owls hoot, or a mouse pipes,
These events are encrypted,
With other great mysteries
I grasp at their presence,
I strain toward a promise,
I sense deep fulfillment…
With enrapturing
World Brightening words…!
Owl Poems That Rhyme
Many owl poems that rhyme are still appreciated. The reason is the unique creature, the owl, and, of course, the rhythm. The Owls, for example by Charles Baudelaire and “Sweet Suffolk Owl” by Thomas Vautor.
1. Night Owl
by Eve Roper
While flying over a little new town
A nice friendly place called Hooters I found
It must have been opened for owls like me
For my large eyes to roll at what to see
A big building of large red stone and bricks
Full of big plump young good looking stacked chicks
A favorite hangout after sundown
Judging from all the hoots and other sounds
Tonight this old bird will give it a try
I will hoot the hoot and have some stir-fry
The nice environmentalist love me
Now I don’t have to sit in this old tree
2. The Early Owl
by Oliver Herford
An owl once lived in a hollow tree,
And he was as wise as wise could be.
The branch of learning he didn’t know
Could scarce on the tree of knowledge grow,
He knew the tree from branch to root,
And an owl like that can afford to hoot.
And he hooted — until, alas! one day,
He chanced to hear, in a casual way,
An insignificant little bird
Make use of a term he had never heard.
He was flying to bed in the dawning light
When he heard her singing with all her might,
“Hurray! hurray! for the early worm!”
“Dear me,” said the owl, “what a singular term!
I would look it up if it weren’t so late,
I must rise at dusk to investigate.
Early to bed and early to rise
Makes an owl healthy, and stealthy, and wise!”
So he slept like an honest owl all day,
And rose in the early twilight gray,
And went to work in the dusky light
To look for the early worm at night.
He searched the country for miles around,
But the early worm was not to be found;
So he went to bed in the dawning light
And looked for the “worm” again next night.
And again and again, and again and again,
He sought and he sought, but all in vain,
Till he must have looked for a year and a day
For the early worm in the twilight gray.
At last in despair he gave up the search,
And was heard to remark as he sat on his perch
By the side of his nest in the hollow tree:
“The thing is as plain as night to me —
Nothing can shake my conviction firm.
There’s no such thing as the early worm.”
3. My Childhood Lullabies
by Donna Jones
When I was a child I enjoyed the lullaby
Each evening of the whistling train going by
Thousands of tree frogs singing in harmony
With hoot owls language spoken so beautifully
The sound the wind makes blowing through the trees
Catching swirling dancing leaves
Momma and daddy’s quiet whispers of love
The giggles of siblings from the room above
I closed my eyes with a prayer in my heart
Awaiting tomorrows promise ,of a brand new start
4. To Little Birds and Tweeting an Ode
by Julian Scutts
Hail, little birdie perched on tree!
What hast thou now to say to me?
“A little bird has told me so,”
As many say. This well we know.
How joyfully I hear thee tweet!
Not every tweet I know is sweet.
Though tyrants sneer and gluttons burp,
How glad am I to hear thee chirp.
It’s always big birds get their way,
Owls and eagles, night and day.
In arid wastes do vultures lower,
While hawkish eyes green pastures scour,
But birds there are that stand for love,
Most notably the turtledove.
No leafy twig a raven bore
When Noah’s eyes beheld no shore.
Spurn little birds? Why be so narrow
When there is One Who marks the sparrow?
5. The Owl And The Sparrow
by John Trumbull
In elder days, in Saturn’s prime,
Ere baldness seized the head of Time,
While truant Jove, in infant pride,
Play’d barefoot on Olympus’ side,
Each thing on earth had power to chatter,
And spoke the mother tongue of nature.
Each stock or stone could prate and gabble,
Worse than ten labourers of Babel.
Along the street, perhaps you’d see
A Post disputing with a Tree,
And mid their arguments of weight,
A Goose sit umpire of debate.
Each Dog you met, though speechless now,
Would make his compliments and bow,
And every Swine with congees come,
To know how did all friends at home.
Each Block sublime could make a speech,
In style and eloquence as rich,
And could pronounce it and could pen it,
As well as Chatham in the senate.
Nor prose alone.
–In these young times,
Each field was fruitful too in rhymes;
Each feather’d minstrel felt the passion,
And every wind breathed inspiration.
Each Bullfrog croak’d in loud bombastic,
Each Monkey chatter’d Hudibrastic;
Each Cur, endued with yelping nature,
Could outbark Churchill’s self in satire;
Each Crow in prophecy delighted,
Each Owl, you saw, was second-sighted,
Each Goose a skilful politician,
Each Ass a gifted met’physician,
Could preach in wrath ‘gainst laughing rogues,
Write Halfway-covenant Dialogues,
And wisely judge of all disputes
In commonwealths of men or brutes.
‘Twas then, in spring a youthful Sparrow
Felt the keen force of Cupid’s arrow:
For Birds, as Æsop’s tales avow,
Made love then, just as men do now,
And talk’d of deaths and flames and darts,
And breaking necks and losing hearts;
And chose from all th’ aerial kind,
Not then to tribes, like Jews, confined
The story tells, a lovely Thrush
Had smit him from a neigh’bring bush,
Where oft the young coquette would play,
And carol sweet her siren lay:
She thrill’d each feather’d heart with love,
And reign’d the Toast of all the grove.
He felt the pain, but did not dare
Disclose his passion to the fair;
For much he fear’d her conscious pride
Of race, to noble blood allied.
Her grandsire’s nest conspicuous stood,
Mid loftiest branches of the wood,
In airy height, that scorn’d to know
Each flitting wing that waved below.
So doubting, on a point so nice
He deem’d it best to take advice.
Hard by there dwelt an aged Owl,
Of all his friends the gravest fowl;
Who from the cares of business free,
Lived, hermit, in a hollow tree;
To solid learning bent his mind,
In trope and syllogism he shined,
‘Gainst reigning follies spent his railing;
Too much a Stoic–’twas his failing.
Hither for aid our Sparrow came,
And told his errand and his name,
With panting breath explain’d his case,
Much trembling at the sage’s face;
And begg’d his Owlship would declare
If love were worth a wise one’s care.
The grave Owl heard the weighty cause,
And humm’d and hah’d at every pause;
Then fix’d his looks in sapient plan,
Stretch’d forth one foot, and thus began.
“My son, my son, of love beware,
And shun the cheat of beauty’s snare;
That snare more dreadful to be in,
Than huntsman’s net, or horse-hair gin.
“By others’ harms learn to be wise,”
As ancient proverbs well advise.
Each villany, that nature breeds,
From females and from love proceeds.
‘Tis love disturbs with fell debate
Of man and beast the peaceful state:
Men fill the world with war’s alarms,
When female trumpets sound to arms;
The commonwealth of dogs delight
For beauties, as for bones, to fight.
Love hath his tens of thousands slain,
And heap’d with copious death the plain:
Samson, with ass’s jaw to aid,
Ne’er peopled thus th’infernal shade.
“Nor this the worst; for he that’s dead,
With love no more will vex his head.
‘Tis in the rolls of fate above,
That death’s a certain cure for love;
A noose can end the cruel smart;
The lover’s leap is from a cart.
But oft a living death they bear,
Scorn’d by the proud, capricious fair.
The fair to sense pay no regard,
And beauty is the fop’s reward;
They slight the generous hearts’ esteem,
And sigh for those, who fly from them.
Just when your wishes would prevail,
Some rival bird with gayer tail,
Who sings his strain with sprightlier note,
And chatters praise with livelier throat,
Shall charm your flutt’ring fair one down,
And leave your choice, to hang or drown.
Ev’n I, my son, have felt the smart;
A Pheasant won my youthful heart.
For her I tuned the doleful lay,
For her I watch’d the night away;
In vain I told my piteous case,
And smooth’d my dignity of face;
In vain I cull’d the studied phrase,
And sought hard words in beauty’s praise.
Her, not my charms nor sense could move,
For folly is the food of love.
Each female scorns our serious make,
“Each woman is at heart a rake.
Thus Owls in every age have said,
Since our first parent-owl was made;
Thus Pope and Swift, to prove their sense,
Shall sing, some twenty ages hence;
Then shall a man of little fame,
One ** **** sing the same.
6. Sans The Owl
by David John Mowers
At school I had trouble socializing,
And still, The Owl, comes all too late?
My formative years are spent deep within caves searching,
Yet The Owl is never found there?
The failures and sadness accumulate over time,
Leaving The Owl traversing some other’s sky,
I feel life slipping away each day,
And still The Owl never manifests!
Where is The Owl? Does it not come with time?
Will cleverness induce her, perhaps woo her with rhyme?
Quell restless mind, The Owl reforge me so I’m freed!
Grant me your talons so that I may succeed!
And still, The Owl, who never manifests,
And still The Owl never manifests.
I curl chalky fingers into travertine-grip,
Aged ruin takes a hold, in my despair as I slip,
Sans which The Owl never did manifest,
To wit, sans The Owl, pounding sand as I jest,
So what, The Owl, never did manifest?
And still The Owl never manifests.
Life without The Owl, was no life at all,
No solemnity of greatness, a life of doltish pit-fall.
And still The Owl never manifests.
And still The Owl never manifests.
7. The Owl And The Fairy
by William Worthless
there was a little owl he lived in a tree
his little eyes were bad. the owl he couldnt see
couldnt go out hunting or searching for his prey
so up in his tree. the owl would have to stay
he was very sad and he begin to cry
a fairy she had heard him as she was passing by
he told her of his eyes how he coundnt see
have to spend his life stuck up in a tree
dont worry said the fairy i know what to do
i will wave my wand grant a wish for you
she wished he had glasses so the owl could see
then the owl could fly, he could leave his tree
the fairys wish came true the little owl could see
owl he got his glasses happy now was he
he could leave his tree fly again once more
high up in the sky he began to soar.
owl he waved goodbye to his fairy friend
a lovely little story with an happy end
Owl Poems in English
Owl poems in English are much acknowledged since it is the most used language in the world. Poems on owl in English include the most read ‘The Owl’ by Edward Thomas.
1. You Little Stinker Devil’s Echo
by Katherine Stella
In forest you’ll hear squak squak squak
May capture bears play
Or foxes ****-eyed walk walk walk
Down by waters bay
High in trees you’ll hear owls owls owls
Just more feathered friends
But I love water fowls fowls fowls
So let’s not this end
Miss Hood cried big bad wolf wolf wolf
I just stared and laughed
Seeing deer prints from hoofs hoofs hoofs
Think she’s needs skunks bath
2. Owl Against Robin
by Sidney Lanier
Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him
Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him
Wrongly of slumber, rudely of rest.
“From the north, from the east, from the south and the west,
Woodland, wheat-field, corn-field, clover,
Over and over and over and over,
Five o’clock, ten o’clock, twelve, or seven,
Nothing but robin-songs heard under heaven:
How can we sleep?
“Peep! you whistle, and cheep! cheep! cheep! Oh, peep, if you will, and buy, if ’tis cheap,
And have done; for an owl must sleep.
Are ye singing for fame, and who shall be first?
Each day’s the same, yet the last is worst,
And the summer is cursed with the silly outburst
Of idiot red-breasts peeping and cheeping
By day, when all honest birds ought to be sleeping.
Lord, what a din! And so out of all reason.
Have ye not heard that each thing hath its season?
Night is to work in, night is for play-time;
Good heavens, not day-time!
“A vulgar flaunt is the flaring day,
The impudent, hot, unsparing day,
That leaves not a stain nor a secret untold,—
Day the reporter,—the gossip of old,—
Deformity’s tease,—man’s common scold—
Poh! Shut the eyes, let the sense go numb
When day down the eastern way has come.
‘Tis clear as the moon (by the argument drawn
From Design) that the world should retire at dawn.
Day kills. The leaf and the laborer breathe
Death in the sun, the cities seethe,
The mortal black marshes bubble with heat
And puff up pestilence; nothing is sweet
Has to do with the sun: even virtue will taint
(Philosophers say) and manhood grow faint
In the lands where the villainous sun has sway
Through the livelong drag of the dreadful day.
What Eden but noon-light stares it tame,
Shadowless, brazen, forsaken of shame?
For the sun tells lies on the landscape,—now
Reports me the what, unrelieved with the how,—
As messengers lie, with the facts alone,
Delivering the word and withholding the tone.
But oh, the sweetness, and oh, the light
Of the high-fastidious night!
Oh, to awake with the wise old stars—
The cultured, the careful, the Chesterfield stars,
That wink at the work-a-day fact of crime
And shine so rich through the ruins of time
That Baalbec is finer than London; oh,
To sit on the bough that zigzags low
By the woodland pool,
And loudly laugh at man, the fool
That vows to the vulgar sun; oh, rare,
To wheel from the wood to the window where
A day-worn sleeper is dreaming of care,
And perch on the sill and straightly stare
Through his visions; rare, to sail
Aslant with the hill and a-curve with the vale,—
To flit down the shadow-shot-with-gleam,
Betwixt hanging leaves and starlit stream,
Hither, thither, to and fro,
Silent, aimless, dayless, slow
(Aimless? Field-mice? True, they’re slain,
But the night-philosophy hoots at pain,
Grips, eats quick, and drops the bones
In the water beneath the bough, nor moans
At the death life feeds on). Robin, pray
Come away, come away
To the cultus of night. Abandon the day.
Have more to think and have less to say.
And cannot you walk now? Bah! don’t hop!
Stop!
Look at the owl, scarce seen, scarce heard,
O irritant, iterant, maddening bird!”
3. The Oracular Owl
by Amos Russel Wells
The oracular owl
Is a very wise fowl.
He sits on a limb
By night and by day,
And an eager assembly waits on him
To listen to what the wise bird may say.
I heard him discourse in the following way:
“The sun soon will set in the west.”
“‘Twill he fair if the sky is not cloudy.”
“If a hundred are good only one can be best.”
“No gentleman’s ever a rowdy.”
“Ah! ah!” cry the birds. “What a marvellous fowl!
Oh, who could excel this oracular owl?”
4. Sound and the Owl
by Melissa U
There was a time when the Owl was the lover of Sound.
Sound was a beautiful creature, full of laughter and life and raucous vitality.
Sound loved the Owl, and the Owl loved Sound.
They would perch in the trees together, laughing, listening to the calls of the peepers and the crickets yells.
Sound would joke, maybe I’ll leave you, go live with them.
The Owl would laugh, who would you go to? Who could love you more than I?
Time passed, and they were in love.
But Sound began to notice a change.
The Owl became sickly, thin, gaunt. Laughs turned to coughs, jokes to weak smiles.
The Owl didn’t eat. How could he, when Sound accompanied him on all of his hunts? The Owl didn’t sleep. Sound may have loved the night best, with its echoes and reverberations in the dark, but daytime was also filled with Sound’s calls, and the Owl could not tear himself away.
Sound begged the Owl, go, eat, sleep! The Owl didn’t listen. He refused to leave Sounds side.
Sound knew that seeing the Owl like this hurt more than being separated from him.
That night, the Owl slept.
He slept all night and all day and when he awoke, it was night once more.
He rustled his feathers, but, to his surprise, Sound was not there.
He opened his beak to call forth. But Sound was still absent.
He searched all throughout his home, becoming increasingly frantic. Sound was gone.
The Owls pain and confusion rushed forth. He opened his beak silently again, then threw himself into flight.
Sound did not accompany him there, either.
The Owl flew all night. His eyes grew large from searching, his hearing keen, and he stretched his neck looking every way looking for Sound.
As morning broke, the Owl returned to the perch he had shared with his love. He listened to the calls of the peepers and the crickets yells, alone. He closed his now- wide eyes, and, from the depths of his being, he crafted a reply, a plea, a call.
“Who”
Who could love you more than I…
5. To a Captive Owl
by Henry Timrod
I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage!
And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe,
But for a most audacious wish to gauge
The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw.
Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed?
Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe—
What is thy moral and religious creed?
And what the metaphysics of thy tribe?
A Poet, curious in birds and brutes,
I do not question thee in idle play;
What is thy station? What are thy pursuits?
Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures—what are they?
Or is’t thy wont to muse and mouse at once,
Entice thy prey with airs of meditation,
And with the unvarying habits of a dunce,
To dine in solemn depths of contemplation?
There may be much—the world at least says so—
Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze;
Yet such a great philosopher should know,
It is by no means wise to think always.
And, Bird, despite thy meditative air,
I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf—
Thou show’st that same grave aspect everywhere,
And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf.
I grieve to be so plain, renowned Bird—
Thy fame’s a flam, and thou an empty fowl;
And what is more, upon a Poet’s word
I’d say as much, wert thou Minerva’s owl.
So doff th’ imposture of those heavy brows;
They do not serve to hide thy instincts base—
And if thou must be sometimes munching mouse,
Munch it, O Owl! with less profound a face.
6. Owl and the Opaque Cape
by Anonymous
Walking in the darkest oddest night
I’ve ever sighted.
Creepy forest
making chilling clicking eerie sounds
just roaming alone testing my courage
feeling haunted.
As sky is clearing up
can see dark unbound mounds
rays of light falling down on the spot
full moon glowing
a mighty purplish Cottonwood in front of me
it’s bleeding.
Now I can hear an owl hooting
coming very close to me
sits on a small chopped off bark
staring at me
provoked, I feel.
Sense shades going through my freezing body
ghosts flirting with me
Cottonwood stops bleeding
a light opening in sight reveals
an innate urge, I feel
walk to the light, I’m now so close.
Then the owl flies in first
to the new realm
we’re now both crossing
only ghosts, I see
yet, the owl
has still kept her real shape
in this realm, I’ve become a ghost
wearing an opaque cape
no way the escape.
7. Owl Hoots and Grasshopper Sings
by Raj Arumugam
Owl slept in the tree’s hollow
but the silly Grasshopper
on the branch outside
made incessant noise
‘Kind Sir,’ said Owl,
‘would you stop singing
and allow me to sleep?
I’m nocturnal
and sleep by day
and so I need some quiet now.’
Grasshopper
looked proud
and rubbed its hind femurs
against its fore-wings
and it said:
‘Ah, Sir Owl –
Eminent Naturalists have come
to record me make my most melodious songs
and they kept away, if you must know,
from your uncouth hooting!
So I will continue singing
and you may live in envy if you like.’
‘Oh it is most true,’
said Owl.
‘You sing most wonderfully
and I but screech.
But come in and I have
a potion
that the Goddess of Song
has just given me
that will soften my hooting
and bring your song to perfection.
You already sing like a sensation,
O Highly Sought-After Grasshopper –
you’ll be even more appreciated after….’
And straight Grasshopper
with a magnificent leap
jumped to Owl’s home;
and straight Owl ate the singing insect
and indeed Grasshopper
was even more appreciated after….
And it is whispered in the forests
Owl’s hooting improved
due to a certain potion
Owl had acquired
from the Goddess of Song
Final Thoughts on Owl Poems
Because of their individuality and personality, poems about owls may make you stand out. Some individuals wish they could fly like an owl, in the notion of having a clear vision and battling quietly.
If these attributes are discovered in humans, they can be extremely beneficial. The acute vision signifies that you should consider each move you take in life.
Many problems can be handled without a fistfight, or the problem never arises in the first place, as evidenced by the quiet battling.
Many notable poets, including Dylan Thomas, Chesterton, and John, composed owl poetry in a variety of genres. Funny, love, short, wisdom, and many other categories are available for owl poems.
You may compare your personality traits with owl poems and can decide how many of your traits are need to be replaced by the owls. In general, owls will avoid humans and react by flying away fast.
Maybe they sense danger around us. If it so, you know what to do.
