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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Emily Pauline Johnson (1861–1913)

The Flight of the Crows

THE AUTUMN afternoon is dying o’er

The quiet western valley where I lie

Beneath the maples on the river shore,

Where tinted leaves, blue waters, and fair sky

Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by

To seek their evening haven in the breast

And calm embrace of silence, while they sing

Te Deums to the night, invoking rest

For busy chirping voice and tired wing—

And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping-cradles swing.

In forest arms the night will soonest creep,

Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,

Where Nature’s children curl themselves to sleep,

And all is still at last, save where alone

A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.

Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day;

Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend

With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away

With rivers where their sweeping waters wend

Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.

O’er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,

Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?

In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led

Their aerial career unseen, unknown,

Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?

The flapping of their pinions in the air

Dies in the hush of distance, while they light

Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,

That stand with giant strength and peerless height,

To shelter fairy, bird, and beast throughout the closing night.

Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,

Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!

Would that my soul could see, and seeing, rise

To unrestricted life where ebb and flow

Of Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!

Could I but live just here in Freedom’s arms,

A kingly life without a sovereign’s care!

Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,

And all is cradled in repose, save where

Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.