Owl

Might I seethe this lonely perch 

An ends to meet with scruffy birch, 

It’s colder here than was before, 

Yet many woes’ that come no more. 

The eyes that seem to catch the mouse, 

Look fonder on these birds that bouche, 

The dream from wonder holds with thee, 

Though; often steady lost on me. 

Ravens crow and scratch my haste, 

While blackness fully forms my waste; 

Oh! But why may thee the plenty ones, 

Knock me down: with which I'm done? 

It seems that I become of them, 

When lost and lonely yet again, 

Lost the loop upon the bend, 

With where I sit; my lonely friend. 

We perch along the windy brim, 

As crows sit sleep along the grim. 

My occupied as night comes rise, 

When back to morn’ do shut my eyes; 

As I do sleep the fonder ones; begin again: 

Just out of luck. 

I’d hope that once I'm better then, 

They'd like to sleep along the bend, 

With many prim and worthy be, 

I'd take thee hit to sit with me. 

Should I like to wit and wait; 

To find the friend that heals my faith. 

Then I’d beckon the world of late.