The Sound of a Crow
(I thank my Aunt for this poem's existence, for she'd composed the first two lines which I then asked if I could adopt and extend into a larger poem.)
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The sound of a crow
In the early morning mist,
Conversing, sweeping low
'midst a lilac mane of snow
And choirs of the missed
All aloof in sunny glow.
Heaps of cooling mountain air
That hum luminous in the dark,
Gliding aloft and fair
'round our spirits and our hair,
Woodland hymns so green and stark
Heir us higher than we've dared.
The ghost of a rose
'gainst our thoughts in repose
Have repelled midnight foes
Who had sought to dispose
The lovely light disclosed
From a higher Light that knows.
The crow spies us here
In the early morning mist,
Knowing not of our fear:
A violent, vain frontier,
Yet now is a benevolent gift,
What exists is our moment: it is dear,
Not twist.
Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017
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