| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Screech Owl | | By J. E. Scruggs |
| | | HE sits all day in a cemetery tree, | |
| The damp of sinking graves upon his breath; | |
| Brooding the little ways of life and death, | |
| Chuckling at thought of immortality. | |
| Long rows of tombstones make his library, | 5 |
| Rare tomes of wit—“dry wit,” he seems to say. | |
| He cons them till night comes, then flies away | |
| Into the dark, to call for you or me. | |
| Or so, when as a boy I heard his cry | |
| Grate the harp-strings of night, I thought it was; | 10 |
| A man, I cross myself, a boy still—half: | |
| As on that night I saw a dear friend die, | |
| And long sat brooding on the patient stars, | |
| And seemed to hear, far off, his mocking laugh! | | | | |
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