The Crow 
7 
Days wear on, and summer passes ; 
Chilling winds pour down from Paugus ; 
Gold and crimson deck the maples ; 
Purple are the fox grape clusters ; 
Blackened ferns droop o'er the meadows ; 
Farmers homeward haul their harvest. 
Then in Crowlands there is bustle, 
Noise, excitement, and confusion. 
Snowflakes flutter round Chocorua ; 
Black flakes settle on the pastures. 
Every stump and every boulder 
Has its sable robber chieftain. 
Thousands congregate and quarrel ; 
Miles away the mountains hear them. 
If perchance a hunter passes. 
If the cattle, restless, straying. 
Snap dead branches in the forest, 
Up the throng flies, clouding heaven. 
Nervous, petulant, expectant. 
When the chill gusts sweep past Paugus, 
Lashing all the lakes to white foam. 
All the mighty hosts of Crowlands 
