Goatsucker Old goatherds swear how all night long they hear The warning whirr and the burring of the bird Who wakes with darkness and till dawn works hard Vampiring dry of milk each great goat udder. Moon full, moon dark, the chary dairy farmer Dreams that his fattest cattle dwindle, fevered By claw-cuts of the Goatsucker, alias Devil-bird, Its eye, flashlit, a chip of ruby fire. So fables say the Goatsucker moves, masked from men's sight In and ebony air, on wings of witch cloth, Well-named, ill-famed a knavish fly-by-night, Yet it never milked any goat, nor dealt cow death And shadows only—cave-mouth bristle beset— Cockchafers and the wan, green luna moth. —Sylvia Plath --

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