Crows

It is dawn; the dreary month of May,
I rove the shore of a weary bay;
In dread and terror (as one might say),
The spring of God fades away,
The darkness grows,
And--ah, yes!--the hum, and drum, of crows--
Yes, crows!

Hear the sty doctrine of the bird;
Blood and ice; they are its word.
A fate of death, their tune compels;
To wax and wane, their song foretells.

Through the breadth of God's great sphere,
Their prophecy roars; ear-to-ear,
Their chirp--their song!--is an opposer of blight,
Their cadence; their hymn, burns through the night.

What a malevolent melody of fear!
Their death draws nigh; They must not hear!
The crows--yes, crows!
Rows, upon rows!
They reap, and they sow,
The earth's stygian woe!

Dreams of dreamers lie suppressed in their beak;
Their lurid eyes; their nocturnal mystique!
They soar in high places,
Bestowing their cry,
Upon all mortal men, dreaming to die.