When the black-barked night trees
Withdraw their arms
Like monks in concealing sleeves,
I know then,
That you have loved the Moon.
There are five owls,
One for each hour
From midnight until dawn;
And each has her special care--
Lacking branch, my owls occupy brevity.
One note only do they speak--
Moon, moon, is what those traitors say,
Five pretty purveyors