The Owl

1 
Men said, but here I know they lied,
The owl was of a sullen clan
Whose voice upon the lone hillside
Forboded ill to mouse and man—
A terror noiseless in the flight,
A hooknosed hoodlum of the night.
2 
But I have found another breed,
An owl of fine artistic feelings,
A connoisseur of wine & weed
Who flutters under frescoed ceilings
Nor scorns to bid the passing guest
Abide a season in his nest.
3 
I saw him on the staircase sit
And blandly wink at jibe & joke,
An arbiter twixt wit & wit,
A god enshrined in baccy smoke
While round his pedestal there beat
The clamour of his servants' feet.
4 
Some toiled in  journalistic fetters
And some in stocks—and stand up collars—
Some worked his will in Art & letters
And some their own with things called dollars.
Whate'er they ran or wrote or drew
The owl was monarch of the crew.
5 
With humour bright as Frisco air 
In speech as dry as Frisco sand,
He blithely bade me welcome there 
And stretched a claw to take my hand
Whereat I found acceptance free
Among his jovial company.
6 
A wanderer from East to West 
A vagrant under many skies,
How shall a roving rhymester best 
Requite O owl thy courtesies?
Accept in lieu of laboured stippling
A simple 'Thank you'
signed R. Kipling.

  

 
 

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