"The moon's a holy owl-queen:
She keeps them in a jar
Under her arm till evening,
Then sallies forth to war.
She pours the owls upon us:
They hoot with horrid noise
And eat the naughty mousie-girls
And wicked mousie-boys.
So climb the moon-vine every night
And to the owl-queen pray:
Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees
For her to take away.
And never squeak, my children,
Nor gnaw the smoke-house door.
The owl-queen then will then love us
And send her birds no more."
At the end I asked for my room and retired. I slept maybe an hour. I was awakened by those tireless little rascals racing along the dark hall and saying in horrible solemn tones, pretending to scare one another:
"The moon's a holy owl-queen:
She keeps them in a jar
Under her arm till night,
Then 'allies out to war!
She sicks the owls upon us,
They 'OOT with 'orrid noise
And eat ... the naughty boys,
And the moon's a holy owl-queen!
She keeps them in a JAR!"
And so it went on, over and over.
Thereupon I made a mighty and a rash resolve. I renewed that same resolve in the morning when I woke. I said within myself "I shall write one hundred Poems on the Moon!"
Of course I did not keep my resolve to write one hundred pieces about the moon. But here are a few of those I did write immediately after:
THE FLUTE OF THE LONELY
[To the tune of Gaily the Troubadour.]