Stanza Sunday: from The Fête by Charlotte Mew

To-night again the moon’s white mat
     Stretches across the dormitory floor
While outside, like an evil cat
     The pion prowls down the dark corridor,
     Planning, I know, to pounce on me, in spiteFor getting leave to sleep in town last night.But it was none of us who made that noise,
Only the old brown owl that hoots and flies
Out of the ivy—he will say it was us boys—
     Seigneur mon Dieu: the sacré soul of spies!
     He would like to catch each dream that lies
      Hidden behind our sleepy eyes:
Their dream? But mine—it is the moon and the wood that sees;
All my long life how I shall hate the trees!

Mew, Charlotte. "The Fête" Accessed June 5, 2015, http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/243438