Ethelwyn Wetherald (26 April 1857 - 9 March 1940 / Rockwood, Ontario)
Hearing the strange night-piercing sound
Of woe that strove to sing,
I followed where it hid, and found
A small soft-throated thing,
A feathered handful of gray grief,
Perched by the year's last leaf.
And heeding not that in the sky
The lamps of peace were lit,
It sent abroad that sobbing cry,
And sad hearts echoed it.
O hush, poor grief, so gray, so wild,
God still is with His child!
Comments about this poem (The Screech-Owl by Ethelwyn Wetherald )
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