When cats run home and light is come
And dew is cold upon the ground
And the far-off stream is dumb
And the whirring sail goes round
Alone and warming his five wits
The white owl in the belfry sits
When merry milkmaids click the latch
And rarely smells the new-mown hay
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his round-e-lay
Alone and warming his five wits
The white owl in the belfry sits