Slow flapping to the setting sun <br />By twos and threes, in wavering rows. <br />As twilight shadows dimly close, <br />The crows fly over Washington. <br /> <br />Under the crimson sunset sky <br />Virginian woodlands leafless lie, <br />In wintry torpor bleak and dun. <br />Through the rich vault of heaven, which shines <br />Like a warmed opal in the sun, <br />With wide advance in broken lines <br />The crows fly over Washington. <br /> <br />Over the Capitol's white dome, <br />Across the obelisk soaring bare <br />To prick the clouds, they travel home, <br />Content and weary, winnowing <br />With dusky vans the golden air, <br />Which hints the coming of the spring, <br />Though winter whitens Washington. <br /> <br />The dim, deep air, the level ray <br />Of dying sunlight on their plumes, <br />Give them a beauty not their own; <br />Their hoarse notes fail and faint away; <br />A rustling murmur floating down <br />Blends sweetly with the thickening glooms; <br />They touch with grace the fading day, <br />Slow flying over Washington. <br /> <br />I stand and watch with clouded eyes <br />These dim battalions move along; <br />Out of the distance memory cries <br />Of days when life and hope were strong, <br />When love was prompt and wit was gay; <br />Even then, at evening, as to-day, <br />I watched, while twilight hovered dim <br />Over Potomac's curving rim, <br />This selfsame flight of homing crows <br />Blotting the sunset's fading rose, <br />Above the roofs of Washington.<br /><br />John Hay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-crows-at-washington/
