On a splintered bough sits the Carrion-crow, 
And first he croaks loud and then he croaks 
low ; 
Twenties of years ago, that bough 
Was leafless and barkless as it is now. 
It is on the top of an ancient oak 
That the Carrion-crow has perched to croak ; 
In the gloom of a forest the old oak grows,— 
When it was young there’s nobody knows. 
M 3 
