Inside the aggrandized oaks
The coterie of crows crudly chatter
Like old witches; as a group of folks
Their black eyes glow. They clatter.
Busily thus they hop and skitter
Until that melancholy hour
When, with the moon's first glitter,
Nightly enemies assume their power.
From their crazed temper the wise
Will learn with terror to despise
All order, stasis, and rest;
For he who ignores every feign,
Carries the memory in his breast,
Of each brother sorrowfully slain.
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