  Black rooks about the trees Are circling slow; Tall elms that can no ease Nor comfort know, Since that the Autumn wind Batters them before, behind, A bitter breeze unkind. They call like tongues of dread Prophesying woe, Rooks on the sunset red, Not heeding how Their clamouring brings near To a woman the old fear For her far soldier dear. That harsh and idle crying Of mere annoy Tells her how men are dying, And how her boy May lie, his racked thought turning To the home fire on the hearth burning, The last agony be learning. |
|
