And it gazes, still and shy,
At the new moon's scanty horn.

And the owls, that fly by night,
Mock it from the ivied tower,
Hooting at the midnight hour
Down upon it from the height.

But the little dove sits on,
Calm between the arches there,
In the holy morning air,
When the owls with night are gone.

Then the bells for matins ring,
And the grey friars past it go,
Into church in double row,
And it hears the chaunts they sing.

And the incense stealing out
Through the chinks, and through the seams,
Floats among the dusty beams,
And wreathes all the bird about.

All the children as they pass
Turn to see the bird of stone,
'Twixt the arches all alone,
Wading to it through the grass.

Is the spider's pretty net,
Hung across the arches there,