In the shelter of the yews
Owls stand in a row like foreign gods
Their red eyes dart
They meditate

They will remain, motionless,
Until the melancholy hour
When the shadows push down the slanting sun
And settle into place

Their attitude teaches wise men that in our world,
Tumult and strife are to be feared;
For man, intoxicated by the fleeting shadows,
Is always punished for his desire to roam