Det er … jeg finner ikke ord. (Ser også at jeg må ha den diktsamlingen.)

The Stuffed Owl

[This is taken from the account given by Miss Jewsbury of the pleasure she derived, when long confined to her bed by sickness, from the inanimate object on which this Sonnet turns.—W.W.]

WHILE Anna’s peers and early playmates tread,
In freedom, the mountain-turf and river’s marge;
Or float with music in the festal barge;
Rein the proud steed, or through the dance are lead;
Her doom it is to press a weary bed—
Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge
More urgent called, will stretch his wings at large,
And friends too rarely prop the languid head.
Yet, helped by Genius—untired Comforter,
The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her
Can cheat the time; sending her fancy out
To ivied castles and to moonlight skies,
Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout;
Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes.

Fin tattis, forresten