A SONG OF THE WINTER WOODS 79 



the thoughts, the emotions, I know, were found in 

 the winter woods. The world is full of poets who 

 cannot write; and the woods, the winter woods, 

 are full of poems that you need never try to write. 



It is now many years since these verses here at 

 the end were written, and many, many years since 

 they were first felt. 



I remember the night very well. I was quite a 

 small boy. The crows began to go over early 

 that afternoon, long, long lines of them, into the 

 thick pine trees at the head of Cubby Hollow. 

 As the last stragglers of the flock passed, and the 

 early twilight deepened, I followed the birds 

 across the frozen fields to their roost in the dark 

 pines. 



Were there a hundred thousand crows in the 

 roost? More, many more than a hundred thou- 

 sand, I should say. The trees were black with 

 them so crowded with them, that as I crept 

 softly over the mat of pine-needles on the ground 

 I could reach into the smaller trees and touch the 

 weary sleepers. 



The moon came up ; the wind rose ; and over me 

 in the tall trees swayed the muffled black forms. 



They were only crows and pine trees. It was 

 only a cold winter night. I was only a school- 



