On eves of cold, when slow coal fires, br rooted in basements, burn and branch, br brushing with smoke the city air; br When quartered moons pale in the sky, br and neons glow along the dark br like deadly nightshade on a briar; br Above the muffled traffic then br I hear the owl, and at his note br I shudder in my private chair. br For like an auger he has come br to roost among our crumbling walls, br his blooded talons sheathed in fur. br Some secret lure of time it seems br has called him from his country wastes br to hunt a newer wasteland here. br And where the candlabra swung br bright with the dancers’ thousand eyes, br now his black, hooded pupils stare, br And where the silk-shoed lovers ran br with dust of diamonds in their hair, br he opens now his silent wing, br And, like a stroke of doom, drops down, br and swoops across the empty hall, br and plucks a quick mouse off the stair...