The Crow ^ 
Weird their notes, and hoarse their croak- 
ing ; 
Silent only when the night comes. 
Where Chocorua water ripples 
In its first half-conscious struggle 
From its mother-mountain parting, 
On its journey seaward starting, 
Rises high a grove of pine-trees. 
Graceful are they as the feathers 
Bound about a chieftain's temples ; 
Graceful as the slender fern fronds 
Swayed by every passing wind-breath. 
In these pines the crows have nested 
Countless seasons. From their branches 
Robber leaders, full of bluster, 
Forth have led their black marauders 
To the ploughings, to the corn-fields, 
To their battles with the farmer. 
High above the singing water, 
Anchored firm against the tempests, 
Shrewdly screened from passing hunters, 
