There where the rusty iron lies, <br />The rooks are cawing all the day. <br />Perhaps no man, until he dies, <br />Will understand them, what they say. <br /> <br />The evening makes the sky like clay. <br />The slow wind waits for night to rise. <br />The world is half content. But they <br /> <br />Still trouble all the trees with cries, <br />That know, and cannot put away, <br />The yearning to the soul that flies <br />From day to night, from night to day.<br /><br />Charles Hamilton Sorley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rooks/
