HOME RETURNING AT THE GLOAMING.
The farmers can no longer mark
The Crows among the branches dark:
Now let us homeward go, they say;
And gathering up their slaughtered prey,
His share each one in bundles ties,
And takes them home to make crow pies.
THE CROWS FLY AWAY BUT RETURN THE NEXT DAY.
Of Crows who were not shot, the few
Far to the distant mountains flew,
But found not there the expected rest:
A longing seized them for their nest,
“Caw! Caw!” with one accord they cry,
“Let us directly homeward fly.”
So in undeviating track,
Like column huge of dotted black,
Straightway their course they homeward bent,
And meditating as they went—
“Caw! Caw!” they say, “How well we know
There is no joy unmixed with woe.”