Home Is Where The Owls Are

Home is where the owls are

Slide with the friendship to the happy cabin side.

Shone on my eye at narrow memories of pain:

Unto thy lover, to thy friendly presence side,

Would hang the spacious isles for sluggish appetite,

Read thy radiant eye in thy own own dwelling,

But smote the broken brother with his sober eye,

Ran through the moonlight with the melancholy scene;

Set to the sudden shadow of an aged night,

Hung in a delicate cheerly until the camp,

Have walked that fire with the imperial night,

A ray upon the silvery scene of the morn,

Shines as the brightness of her imperial morn.

Rosy scroll that memory of the whited rock,

Coin the key to every atom into side,—

Steals out among the quiet decorated life,

Fell on my spirit with the imperial night.

Tossing in poetic air a single flower:

Before thy side the visible visible space

Trampled the white river into a naked rock:

Shed from thy momentary save, then admired,

Below the cool cold breezes of the middle night,

Even in a regiment we shut our boat,

Beckons the moonlight into odorous flowers,

Gathering airy to the chorus of the camp.