For the Book of Crows

WHAT it is when the crow caws,
In language that is strange
To all but another crow
Listening, in another tree,
May be, for all we know,

Their Clytemnest ra cursing,
And her lord slain, below;
Or Roland, with a black
Rasping horn that none
Can blow as he can blow; —

Or she, that other, there,
May be listening, now,
To a most piteous, most
Eloquent Romeo . . .
Or Tristram, speaking so. . . .

Let’s hope there may be near —
There may, for all we know —
Some hid, recording bard,
With a black, splendid quill,
Whence the dark tale will flow
To later tribes of crow.