Now as I lie, owls in the dark gardens
- swift for destroying, sudden circlers - wail
for no grief; trees have their windy burdens;
and the great idiot moon puts out a sail
for no shore.

So all the postcard hours are folded up,
and wild things inherit us.  Oh now,
because I am not listening for your step
in the still, airy room - knowing how
far you are - 

I am destroying the night with kindness,
for no joy: while you shiver at the tall
trees that lament, in no greater coldness,
the lesser agony of the hypocrite owl.