THE OWLS
            (from the French of)
            Charles Baudelaire
                p. 1857; transl. Campbell
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  Within the shelter of black yews
  The owls in ranks are ranged apart
  Like foreign gods, whose eyeballs dart
  Red fire. They meditate and muse.
  
  Without a stir they will remain
  Till, in its melancholy hour,
  Thrusting the level sun from power,
  The shade establishes its reign.
  
  Their attitude instructs the sage,
  Content with what is near at hand,
  To shun all motion, strife, and rage.
  
  Men, crazed with shadows that they chase,
  Bear, as a punishment, the brand
  Of having wished to change their place.
  
   
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