THE RAVENS

Across the black nook the ravens hasten

At noonday with harsh cry.

Their shadow sweeps past the hind

And sometimes one sees them in sullen repose.

O how they disturb the brown silence

Wherein a tilled field is enrapt

Like a woman by heavy foreboding entranced,

And sometimes one can hear them bickering

Over some carrion scented out somewhere;

Of a sudden they direct their flight northwards

And dwindle away like a funeral procession

In airs which shudder with rapture.