Poetry Archives

In the choir the boys are singing the hymn.
        The morning light on their lips
Moves in silver-moist flashes, in musical trim.

Sudden outside the high window, one crow
        Hangs in the air
And lights on a withered oak-tree’s top of woe.

One bird, one blot, folded and still at the top
        Of the withered tree!—in the grail
Of crystal heaven falls one full black drop.

Like a soft full drop of darkness it seems to sway
        In the tender wine
Of our Sabbath, suffusing our sacred day.