When Winter surrenders and loses his stings,
And contrary March gives o'er storming, and clings
To the days that caress one, (Oh, wonderful days,
Anticipatory of Spring's luring ways!)
'Tis then we may hear, at the twilight's soft fall,
The little screech owl, with his plaintive call;
This strange little singer, this wise little fowl,
The wavery, quavery, little screech owl.

When long shadows deepen and day is well done,
The time for this night bird has but well begun.
On the softest of wings, like a faint breath of air,
But with heart strings atune for his lady-love fair,
He leaves his retreat in the evergreen tree
For a rendezvous near where his sweetheart will be;
For this is the way of this soft, fluffy fowl,
The wavery, quavery, little screech owl.

There, tuning his lute to a soft minor key,
He will serenade her more than beautifully
With that wavery, quavery, long drawn out trill,
'Til the heart of his listening lady will thrill!
Again and again, in that tremulo note,
Like a chip on a wind rippled water afloat,
He will sing to his sweetheart, this nocturnal fowl,
The wavery, quavery, little screech owl.

Now, many a maiden, and many a lad,
Think the song of the owl is too lonely, too sad,
But I love its soft quaver, its coaxing, its charm,
Its plaintive beseeching should cause no alarm.
So, perch near my casement, and stare with wide eyes
Direct at my hearthstone, my earth's paradise;
And sing out your story, you queer little fowl.
Oh, wavery, quavery, little screech owl!