The Crow’s Nest

The old crow cawed in the top of the tree; And it echoed over the place where the sun goes down. The hills are creased and wrinkle their brows at me, While the river twists as it flees with a frown.

I heard the grey shadows that shift as the stars, And the rushes that whisper among the reeds. The ghost of the moon is a dim dreamer, and far Are the spirits that linger along the green meads.

I shall sit here, watching till daylight shall open With kisses of light ‘mid the shadows of night; Till in red sheets of fire the dawn shall be spoken, And I shall be snared in its gambits of light.

• Wilfrid Wilson Gibson