126 THE CARRION-CROW. 
"Tis but half alive, and up in the air 
You may see its branches splintered and bare; 
You may see them plain in the cloudy night, 
They are so skeleton-like and white. 
The old oak trunk is gnarled and grey, 
But the wood has rotted all away, 
Nothing remains but a cave-like shell, 
Where bats, and spiders, and millepedes dwell ; 
And the tawny owl and the noisy daw, 
In many a hollow and many a flaw; 
By night or by day, were you there about, 
You might see them creep in, or see them 
creep out. 
And there, on the top of that ancient oak, 
The Carrion-crow he sits to croak ;— 
The words of his croaking I fain would know ; 
What does he say—that Carrion-crow? 
He says, and he’s merry as he can be,— 
« To-night there’s a famous feast for me; 
For me and my mate so beautiful, 
Where the hound hes dead by the forest-pool. 
