C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Emily Pauline Johnson (1861–1913)
The Flight of the Crows
T
The quiet 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
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.
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 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.
Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led
Their aerial career unseen, unknown,
Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?
Dies in the hush of distance, while they light
Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,
That stand with giant strength and peerless height,
To shelter fairy, bird, and beast throughout the closing night.
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 Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!
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.