In a dim room before the candles are lit, Mary asks if the speaker hears the Aziola’s call. He tenses up, imagining “some tedious woman”—a human presence that might judge or mock him. But when Mary explains it’s just a small, soft owl, his relief is immediate and profound. The sound, he realizes, holds no threat; it’s purely natural, nothing human to fear or hate. Mary sees his soul, laughs gently, and reassures him. The second half of the poem shifts into a tender address to the “Sad Aziola,” as the speaker recalls having heard its cry many times by woods and streams, but never truly listened until now. From that moment, he says, he loved both the owl and its sorrowful song. The mood is hushed, intimate, and quietly joyful—a tiny domestic scene that opens into a deep affection for the world beyond human anxieties.
The Aziola — Summary
'Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh,' Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought; And I, who thought This Aziola was some tedious woman, Asked, 'Who is Aziola?' How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear or hate: And Mary saw my soul, And laughed, and said, 'Disquiet yourself not; 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.'
Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, And fields and marshes wide,-- Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, The soul ever stirred; Unlike and far sweeter than them all. Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry.