6 
The Crow 
Some upon the oaks' low branches, 
Some upon the cool, damp mosses, 
Some within the limpid waters 
Wade and watch their black reflections. 
All their notes are low and drowsy, 
Muffled croaks, and guttural cawings. 
All their motions speak contentment, 
Tell of coolness, well-fed comfort. 
When the sun toward Passaconway 
Takes his downward course towards even- 
ing, 
Crows are out again and stirring ; 
O'er the pines excited circling ; 
O'er the lake with straight flight flapping ; 
On the hilltops loudly cawing. 
But as darkness from the valleys 
Reaches out and clasps the mountains, 
Shadows, heavy-winged and noiseless. 
One by one, throb through the pine woods. 
Crows are seeking sleep the restful ; 
Crows regain their roosts in silence. 
