THE FLIGHT OF THE CROWS
Johnson, E. Pauline
THE autumn afternoon is dying o'er
The quite western valley where I lie
Beneath the maples on the river shore,
Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky
Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by
To seek their evening haven in the breast
And calm embrace of silence, while they sing
Te Deums to the night, invoking rest
For busy chirping voice and tired wing--
And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping
cradles swing.
In forest arms the night will soonest creep,
Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,
Where Nature's children curl themselves to sleep,
And all is still at last, save where alone
A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands
unknown.
Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,
Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend
With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away
With rivers where their sweeping waters wend
Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold
to end.
O'er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,
Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they
flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led
Their aërial career unseen, unknown,
'Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely
monotone?
The flapping of their pinions in the air
Dies in the hush of distance, while they light
Within the fir tops, weirdly back and bare,
That stand with giant strength and peerless
height,
To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the
closing night.
Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,
Would that your wind-tossed travels I could
know!
Would that my soul could see, and seeing, rise
To unrestricted life where ebb and flow
Of Natures's pulse would constitute a wider life
below!
Could I but live just here in Freedom's arms,
A kingly life without a sovereign's care!
Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her
charms,
And all is cradled in repose, save where
Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the
evening air.
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