All
Long live the Night!
And in a weird, savage, hurried chorus, interspersed with hoots and flapping of wings, all talking together and rocking themselves in hideous glee.
The Grand-duke
Praise the Night, discreet, propitious,
When with wadded wing and muted
O er the sleeping world we fly,
And the partridge in the bracken
Ne’er suspects the hovering presence
Till we pounce without a cry.
The Screech-owl
Praise the Night, convenient, secret,
When in slaughtering baby rabbits
We can do it at our ease,
Daub the grass with blood in comfort,
Spare the pains to look like heroes,
Be ourselves where no one sees!
An Old Horned-owl
Praise the density of darkness!
A Wood-owl
The intensity of stillness
Letting crunching bones be heard!
A Barn-owl
Freshness pleasantly contrasting
With the genial warmth of blood drops
Spurting from a strangled bird!
The Wood-owl
Praise the black rock oozing terror!
The Screech-owl
And the cross-roads where our screeches,
Furrowing the startled air,
Our demoniac yelling, hooting,
Make the hardened unbeliever
Cross himself and fall to prayer!
The Grand-duke
Praise the snares of the great Weaver,
Night, whose only fault or weakness
Is her tolerance of stars!