4 
The Crow 
Rest the nests of matted pine twigs, 
Rest the castles of the robbers. 
In the days of melting snow-drifts, 
Days when down the lakes come drifting 
Wreck and raft of winter's ice-field, 
Crows are busy in the treetops. 
Far away upon the hill crests, 
Scanning lake, and road, and meadow. 
Are the pickets, full of clamor. 
If by chance they see the farmer, 
Hills reecho, and the pine-trees 
Are deserted, left in silence. 
When hepaticas are blooming, 
When the blood - root smiles towards 
Heaven, 
When young columbine the jester 
Shakes her bells above the moss-cups. 
Mother crows with warm devotion 
Guard their eggs beneath their feathers. 
Watch afar the farmer planting, 
Count the days until the hatching. 
