The Crows

Over the pines the crows

Are crying and calling out

In a tongue that no man knows,

Out of an agonized throat.

The bitter unspeakable tones

Lash the air where they fly,

As a man might mock the bones

Of a joy that has come to die;

Spilling a waste of sound

Into the resonant air

That plunges to the ground

With the dead weight of despair.