61 Crow Poems – the Blackest, Bleakest Image amongst All Poetry

Crow poems are a unique and captivating form of poetry that explore the darkest aspects of the human experience.

Often featuring the blackest and bleakest imagery, these poems use the figure of the crow as misery.

Poems about crows are a raw and powerful expression of the human condition, delving into the depths of pain and sorrow that are often left unspoken.

Yet, amidst the darkness, there is also a glimmer of hope, as these poems offer a cathartic release, a way to confront and process the darkness within.

From the works of Ted Hughes to those of lesser-known poets, crow poems challenge us to confront the darkness and find meaning in the midst of suffering.

You May Also Be Interested In:

• dragonfly poems
• cow poems
• spider poems

Famous Crow Poems

Famous poems about crows, such as those by Ted Hughes, capture the raw power and darkness of the crow as a symbol of death, despair, and misery, evoking powerful emotions in readers.

1. Crow’s Elephant Totem Song

       by Ted Hughes

Once upon a time
God made this Elephant.
Then it was delicate and small
It was not freakish at all
Or melancholy

The Hyenas sang in the scrub: You are beautiful—
They showed their scorched heads and grinning expressions
Like the half-rotted stumps of amputations—
We envy your grace
Waltzing through the thorny growth
O take us with you to the Land of Peaceful
O ageless eyes of innocence and kindliness
Lift us from the furnaces
And furies of our blackened faces
Within these hells we writhe
Shut in behind the bars of our teeth
In hourly battle with a death
The size of the earth
Having the strength of the earth.
So the Hyenas ran under the Elephant‘s tail
As like a lithe and rubber oval
He strolled gladly around inside his ease
But he was not God no it was not his
To correct the damned
In rage in madness then they lit their mouths
They tore out his entrails
They divided him among their several hells
To cry all his separate pieces
Swallowed and inflamed
Amidst paradings of infernal laughter.
At the Resurrection
The Elephant got himself together with correction
Deadfall feet and toothproof body and bulldozing bones
And completely altered brains
Behind aged eyes, that were wicked and wise.

2. Crow Blacker than Ever

       by Ted Hughes

When God, disgusted with man,
Turned towards heaven.
And man, disgusted with God,
Turned towards Eve,
Things looked like falling apart.

But Crow. . Crow
Crow nailed them together,
Nailing Heaven and earth together –

So man cried, but with God’s voice.
And God bled, but with man’s blood.

Then heaven and earth creaked at the joint
which became gangrenous and stank –
A horror beyond redemption.

The agony did not diminish.

Man could not be man nor God God.

The agony

Grew.

Crow

Grinned

Crying: ‘This is my Creation,’

Flying the black flag of himself.

3. Crow Sickened

       by Ted Hughes

His illness was something could not vomit him up.
Unwinding the world like a ball of wool
Found the last end tied round his own finger.

Decided to get death, but whatever
Walked into his ambush
Was always his own body.

Where is this somebody who has me under?
He dived, he journeyed, challenging, climbed and with a
glare of hair on end finally met fear.

His eyes sealed up with shock, refusing to see.

With all his strength he struck. He felt the blow.

Horrified, he fell.

4. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

       by William Blake 

Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burdend air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep

Once meek, and in a perilous path,
The just man kept his course along
The vale of death.

Roses are planted where thorns grow.
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.

Then the perilous path was planted:
And a river, and a spring
On every cliff and tomb;
And on the bleached bones
Red clay brought forth.

Till the villain left the paths of ease,
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.

Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility.
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where lions roam.

Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burdend air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

5. The Phoenix and the Turtle

       by William Shakespeare

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou, shrieking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather’d king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-defying swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak’st
With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov’d, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
‘Twixt the turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix’ sight:
Either was the other’s mine.

Property was thus appall’d,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was call’d.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either-neither,
Simple were so well compounded.

That it cried how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supreme and stars of love;
As chorus to their tragic scene.

6. Winter Chant

       by Hans Ostrom

Winter shiver, light low.
Winter shiver, snow.
Icy days, crows hide.
The gray skies, wide.

Later winter. Spring, come!
Pulsing’s like a drum.
Later winter, longer days–
What the clock-watch says.

Latest Winter, buds swell:
Spring to ring its bell.
Watch for Winter shiver, though:
Mean frost–you never know.

7. One Morning in Suburbia

       by Hans Ostrom

Big black-green fir trees, so still
this morning, loom over suburbia.
I toss food scraps to crows and one
seagull, who swarm the grass,

Cars go by, off to schools and jobs.
Schools and jobs–if only we
could keep things simple like that.
Instead we have wars and famine
and rapacious climate change.

In this nation: a mass-shooting
per week, deranged hatred oozing
out of every pore. Some friends
tell me, “Humans have always
been like this.” At this late date,
such weary cynicism can’t be enough.

Fed, the seagull sits atop a pole
and shrieks with joy. Now
three crows line up to drink
from the bird bath, waiting for the fourth
to finish. They take turns. They don’t fight.

8. Giant Crows Can Be Thugs 

       by Caren Krutsinger

Giant ebony crows are thugs, the six-year-old child informed me.
They can intimidate you out of a hangdog upside down elm tree.
Having no knowledge of this at all, I begged to hear more.
This child lives in the small yellow ranch house, right next door.

Iowa murder of crows came at night and took us all hostage she said.
They pistol whipped my step daddy until his face was bloody red.
I expected Fox TV news crews to pull up any second of course.
Blacky, the biggest crow came in riding an enormous Arabian horse.

Wild marathon story paraded, out of her Springfield, Illinois mouth.
Queen crow was upset about her libations, so she began to fly south.
The old mother crow chased after her on a broomstick, so weird.
Neither were feminine, they actually both sported a beard

arrogant crow stole all our jewelry, his feathers were ebony black.
Sneaky crow stole all our pink toothpaste, pushed them a gunny sack.
Stopped by the kitchen to grab a diamond watch to put in his pack.
He sneered and cawed at me loudly when he looked back.

These crows were killers, they wore red t-shirts that said murder.
Bo Crow stole a black taser gun we have used twice as a cow herder.
One stuck out his beak and glared when they were turning to flee.
Child’s mother said, “This kid watches way too much TV,”

I noted from the doorway a flutter of feathers and a large golden beak.
The child was pulled into the house by wings; she gave a loud squeak.
Her brother was thrown out a window by a large black object just then.
I pretended I had somewhere to go and jumped off the deep end.

Short Crow Poems

Short crow poems pack a punch, distilling the essence of the crow’s symbolism into a few poignant lines that leave a lasting impression on the reader.

1. Merry-Go-Round

       by Langston Hughes
 
Where is the Jim Crow Section
On this merry-go-round,
Mister, cause I want to ride?
Down South where I come from
White and colored
Can’t sit side by side.
 
Down South on the train
There’s a Jim Crow car.
 
On the bus we’re put in the back–
But there ain’t no back
To a merry-go-round!
Where’s the horse
For a kid that’s black?

2. Maggie

       by Anonymous 

magnet magpie
distant children’s song
4 for twenty blackbirds
sleepy so they yawn
who nipped off her nose
it broke in the snow
cobalt Crow vidae
sing fast then sing slow

3. Scared Shoot Less

       by Anonymous 

Prickly green crow with fuzzy eyes crept into the meadow last night
Purple thistles cringed when they saw who it was, they knew him.
He was notorious for swallowing their buds and shoots in gulps.
Does he have a name? A cringing wildflower asked. Scared shoot less.

4. Where is His Damned Ink Well?

       by Anonymous

What a smart crow! Patty, the new girl said.
She was being flirtatious with Johnny, my owner.
You can do better, I told him.
He is a great guy, but he does not speak crow.
And he does not have terrific taste in women.
I speak English, but it does not come out well in beak.
I write this down, but my penmanship is bad too.
Where is his damned ink well? I wonder.
Poe always kept ours on his desk.

5. Crow’s Last Stand

       by Ted Hughes

Burning
Burning
Burning

There was finally something
The sun could not burn, that it had rendered
everything down to – a final obstacle
against which it raged and charred

and rages and chars

Limpid among the glaring furnace clinkers
the pulsing blue tongues and the red and the yellow
the green lickings of the conflagration

6. Crows

       by Ted Hughes

Black is the wet otter’s head, lifted.
Black is the rock, plunging in foam
Black is the gall lying on the bed of the blood.

Black is the earth-globe, one inch under,
An egg of blackness
Where sun and moon alternate their weathers

To hatch a crow, a black rainbow
Bent in emptiness
over emptiness
But flying

Long Crow Poems

Long poetries about crows take the reader on a journey through the depths of human despair, exploring the darkness within and offering a cathartic release through powerful imagery and metaphor.

1. A Forest Hymn

       by William Cullen Bryant

The groves were God’s first temples.
Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them, ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication.
For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty.
Ah, why
Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect
God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs,
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in His ear.
 
Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof.
Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees.
They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze,
And shot towards heaven.
The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker.
These dim vaults,
These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride
Report not.
No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works.
But thou art here—thou fill’st
The solitude.
Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summit of these trees
In music; thou art in the cooler breath
That from the inmost darkness of the place
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
 
Here is continual worship;—Nature, here,
In the tranquility that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence.
Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does.
Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections.
Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of thee.
This mighty oak—
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
Almost annihilated—not a prince,
In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
E’er wore his crown as lofty as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him.
Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun.
That delicate forest flower
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.

My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me—the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever.
Written on thy works I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.
 
Lo! all grow old and die—but see again,
How on the faltering footsteps of decay
Youth presses—-ever gay and beautiful youth
In all its beautiful forms.
These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors
Moulder beneath them.
Oh, there is not lost
One of earth’s charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies
And yet shall lie.
Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death—yea, seats himself
Upon the tyrant’s throne—the sepulchre,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment.
For he came forth
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
 
There have been holy men who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them;—and there have been holy men
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
 
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and in thy presence reassure
My feeble virtue.
Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink
And tremble and are still.
Oh, God! when thou
Dost scare the world with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
And drowns the village; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities—who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchained elements to teach
Who rules them.
Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of the works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.

2. A Servant to Servants

       by Robert Frost

I didn’t make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find.
.
It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
 
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
 
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
 
You take the lake.
I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
 
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends.
It lies five miles

Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
 
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
 
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
 
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming.
And you like it here?
I can see how you might.
But I don’t know!

It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business.
As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t.
We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
 
But I don’t count on it as much as Len. 
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me.
He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring.
But it’s not medicine–

Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so–
It’s rest I want–there, I have said it out–
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them–from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
 
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
 
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through–
Leastways for me–and then they’ll be convinced.
 
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
 
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live–ten miles from anywhere.
 
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
 
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do–
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
 
(Women and men will make them all the same)
But work ain’t all.
Len undertakes too much.
 
He’s into everything in town.
This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
 
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
 
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon.
Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
 
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
 
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me.
There’s two can play at that.
 
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
 
My father’s brother wasn’t right.
They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
 
I’ve been away once–yes, I’ve been away.
 
The State Asylum.
I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea–the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
 
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
 
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives–
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
 
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
 
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
 
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes.
It was some girl.
 
Anyway all he talked about was love.
 
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n’t kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,–
A narrow passage all the way around.
 
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
 
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
 
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
 
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm–all of his clothes.
 
Cruel–it sounds.
I ‘spose they did the best
They knew.
And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
 
That was what marrying father meant to her.
 
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night.
He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
 
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
 
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play–
The only fun he had.
I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
 
He was before my time–I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
 
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
 
It got so I would say–you know, half fooling–
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”–
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
 
No wonder I was glad to get away.
 
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
 
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
 
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while–but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
 
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake.
I’m past such help–
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him–it’s not sure enough.
 
I ‘spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground–
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain.
I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
 
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
 
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
 
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
 
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
 
There’s work enough to do–there’s always that;
But behind’s behind.
The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
 
I sha’n’t catch up in this world, anyway.

I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

3. November

       by William Cullen Bryant

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;
And, if the sun looks through, ’tis with a face
Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,
When done the journey of her nightly race,
Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.

For days the shepherds in the fields may be,
Nor mark a patch of sky— blindfold they trace,
The plains that seem without a bush or tree,
Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,
Crouching and sleeping ‘Neath its grassy lair,
And scarcely startles, though’ the shepherd goes
Close by its home, and dogs are barking there;
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passerby, then knaps his hide again;
And moody crows beside the road forbear
To fly, though’ pelted by the passing swain;
Thus day seems turned to night, and tries to wake in vain.

The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon,
And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light;
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon,
And small birds chirp and startle with affright;
Much doth it scare the superstitious wight,
Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay;
While cow-boys think the day a dream of night,
And oft grow fearful on their lonely way,
Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.

Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings
Its murky prison round— then winds wake loud;
With sudden stir the startled forest sings
Winter’s returning song— cloud races cloud,
And the horizon throws away its shroud,
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye;
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd,
And o’er the sameness of the purple sky
Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.

At length it comes along the forest oaks,
With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high;
The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks,
And stock dove-flocks in hurried terrors fly,
While the blue hawk hangs o’er them in the sky.
—
The hedger hastens from the storm begun,
To seek a shelter that may keep him dry;
And foresters low bent, the wind to shun,
Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher’s muttering gun.

The ploughman hears its humming rage begin,
And hies for shelter from his naked toil;
Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin,
He bends and scampers o’er the elting soil,
While clouds above him in wild fury boil,
And winds drive heavily the beating rain;
He turns his back to catch his breath awhile,
Then ekes his speed and faces it again,
To seek the shepherd’s hut beside the rushy plain.

The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat
The melancholy crow—in hurry weaves,
Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat,
Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves,
Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves.

There he doth dithering sit, and entertain
His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves;
Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta’en,
And wishing in his heart ’twas summer-time again.

Thus wears the month along, in checker’d moods,
Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms;
One hour dies silent o’er the sleepy woods,
The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;
A dreary nakedness the field deforms—
Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight,
Lives in the village still about the farms,
Where toil’s rude uproar hums from morn till night
Noises, in which the ears of Industry delight.

At length the stir of rural labour’s still,
And Industry her care awhile forgoes;
When winter comes in earnest to fulfil
His yearly task, at bleak November’s close,
And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows;
When frost locks up the stream in chill delay,
And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes,
For little birds—then Toil hath time for play,
And nought but threshers’ flails awake the dreary day.

4. Roosters

       by Elizabeth Bishop

At four o’clock
In the gun-metal blue dark
We hear the first crow of the first cock

Just below
The gun-metal blue window
And immediately there is an echo

Off in the distance,
Then one from the backyard fence,
Then one, with horrible insistence,

Grates like a wet match
From the broccoli patch,
Flares, and all over town begins to catch.

Cries galore
Come from the water-closet door,
From the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,

Where in the blue blur
Their rusting wives admire,
The roosters brace their cruel feet and glare

With stupid eyes
While from their beaks there rise
The uncontrolled, traditional cries.

Deep from protruding chests
In green-gold medals dressed,
Planned to command and terrorize the rest,

The many wives
Who lead hens’ lives
Of being courted and despised;

Deep from raw throats
A senseless order floats
All over town.
A rooster gloats

Over our beds
From rusty irons sheds
And fences made from old bedsteads,

Over our churches
Where the tin rooster perches,
Over our little wooden northern houses,

Making sallies
From all the muddy alleys,
Marking out maps like Rand McNally’s:

Glass-headed pins,
Oil-gold’s and copper greens,
Anthracite blues, alizarins,

Each one an active
Displacement in perspective;
Each screaming, “This is where I live!”

Each screaming
“Get up! Stop dreaming!”
Roosters, what are you projecting?

You, whom the Greeks elected
To shoot at on a post, who struggled?
When sacrificed, you whom they labeled

“Very combative.

What right have you to give? 
Commands and tell us how to live,

Cry “Here!” and “Here!”
And wake us here where are
Unwanted love, conceit and war?

The crown of red
Set on your little head
Is charged with all your fighting blood

Yes, that excrescence
Makes a most virile presence,
Plus all that vulgar beauty of iridescence

Now in mid-air
By two they fight each other.

Down comes a first flame-feather,

And one is flying,
With raging heroism defying
Even the sensation of dying.

And one has fallen
But still above the town
His torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;

And what he sung
No matter.
He is flung
On the gray ash-heap, lies in dung

With his dead wives
With open, bloody eyes,
While those metallic feathers oxidize.

Peter’s sin
Was worse than that of Magdalen
Whose sin was of the flesh alone;

Of spirit, Peter’s,
Falling, beneath the flares,
Among the “servants and officers.

Old holy sculpture
Could set it all together
In one small scene, past and future:

Christ stands amazed,
Peter, two fingers raised
To surprise lips, both as if dazed.

But in between
A little cock is seen
Carved on a dim column in the travertine,

Explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;

Yes, and there Peter’s tears
Run down our chanticleer’s
Sides and gem his spurs.

Tear-encrusted thick
As a medieval relic
He waits.
Poor Peter, heart-sick,

Still cannot guess
Those cock-a-doodles yet might bless,
His dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,

A new weathervane
On basilica and barn,
And that outside the Lateran

There would always be
A bronze cock on a porphyry
Pillar so the people and the Pope might see

That event the Prince
Of the Apostles long since
Had been forgiven, and to convince

All the assembly
That “Deny deny deny”
Is not all the roosters cry.

In the morning
A low light is floating
In the backyard, and gilding

From underneath
The broccoli, leaf by leaf;
How could the night have come to grief?

Gilding the tiny
Floating swallow’s belly
And lines of pink cloud in the sky,

The day’s preamble
Like wandering lines in marble,
The cocks are now almost inaudible.

The sun climbs in,
Following “to see the end,”
Faithful as enemy, or friend.

5. The Idiot Boy

      by William Wordsworth

‘Tis eight o’clock,—a clear March night,
The moon is up—the sky is blue,
The owlet in the moonlight air,
He shouts from nobody knows where;
He lengthens out his lonely shout,
Halloo! Halloo! A long halloo!
 
—Why bustle thus about your door,
what means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?
And why on horseback have you set
Him whom you love, your idiot boy?
 
Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;
But wherefore set upon a saddle
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?
 
There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed;
Good Betty put him down again;
His lips with joy they burr at you,
But, Betty! What has he to do
with stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
 
The world will say ’tis very idle,
Bethink you of the time of night;
there’s not a mother, no not one,
But when she hears what you have done,
oh! Betty she’ll be in a fright.
 
But Betty’s bent on her intent,
For her good neighbor, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,
As if her very life would fail.
 
There’s not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a bed in pain,
and sorely puzzled are the twain,
For what she ails they cannot guess.
 
And Betty’s husband’s at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale;
There’s none to help poor Susan Gale,
What must be done? What will betide?
 
And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her pony, that is mild and good,
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane,
Or bringing faggots from the wood.
 
And he is all in travelling trim,
And by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has up upon the saddle set,
The like was never heard of yet,
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.
 
And he must post without delay
Across the bridge that’s in the dale,
And by the church, and o’er the down,
To bring a doctor from the town,
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
 
There is no need of boot or spur,
there is no need of whip or wand,
For Johnny has his holly-bough,
and with a hurly-burly now
He shakes the green bough in his hand.
 
And Betty o’er and o’er has told
the boy who is her best delight,
both what to follow, what to shun,
What do, and what to leave undone,
How turn to left, and how to right.
 
And Betty’s most especial charge,
Was, “Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all,
Come home again, whate’er befal,
My Johnny do, I pray you do.
 
To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head, and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too,
And then! his words were not a few,
Which Betty well could understand.
 
And now that Johnny is just going,
Though Betty’s in a mighty flurry,
She gently pats the pony’s side,
On which her idiot boy must ride,
And seems no longer in a hurry.
 
But when the pony moved his legs,
Oh! then for the poor idiot boy!
For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For joy his head and heels are idle,
He’s idle all for very joy.
 
And while the pony moves his legs,
In Johnny’s left hand you may see,
The green bough’s motionless and dead:
The moon that shines above his head
Is not more still and mute than he.
 
His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship,
Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
 
And Betty’s standing at the door,
And Betty’s face with joy o’erflows,
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim;
How quietly her Johnny goes.
 
The silence of her idiot boy,
What hopes it sends to Betty’s heart!
He’s at the guide-post—he turns right,
She watches till he’s out of sight,
And Betty will not then depart.
 
Burr, burr—now Johnny’s lips they burr,
As loud as any mill, or near it,
Meek as a lamb the pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves,
And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
 
Away she hies to Susan Gale:
And Johnny’s in a merry tune,
The owlets hoot, the owlets purr,
And Johnny’s lips they burr, burr, burr,
And on he goes beneath the moon.
 
His steed and he right well agree,
For of this pony there’s a rumour,
That should he lose his eyes and ears,
And should he live a thousand years,
He never will be out of humour.
 
But then he is a horse that thinks!
And when he thinks his pace is slack;
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,
Yet for his life he cannot tell
What he has got upon his back.
 
So through the moonlight lanes they go,
And far into the moonlight dale,
And by the church, and o’er the down,
To bring a doctor from the town,
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
 
And Betty, now at Susan’s side,
Is in the middle of her story,
What comfort Johnny soon will bring,
With many a most diverting thing,
Of Johnny’s wit and Johnny’s glory.
 
And Betty’s still at Susan’s side:
By this time she’s not quite so flurried;
Demure with porringer and plate
She sits, as if in Susan’s fate
Her life and soul were buried.
 
But Betty, poor good woman! she,
You plainly in her face may read it,
Could lend out of that moment’s store
Five years of happiness or more,
To any that might need it.
 
But yet I guess that now and then
With Betty all was not so well,
And to the road she turns her ears,
And thence full many a sound she hears,
Which she to Susan will not tell.
 
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,
“As sure as there’s a moon in heaven,”
Cries Betty, “he’ll be back again;
They’ll both be here, ’tis almost ten,
They’ll both be here before eleven.”
 
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,
The clock gives warning for eleven;
‘Tis on the stroke—”If Johnny’s near,”
Quoth Betty “he will soon be here,
As sure as there’s a moon in heaven.”
 
The clock is on the stroke of twelve,
And Johnny is not yet in sight,
The moon’s in heaven, as Betty sees,
But Betty is not quite at ease;
And Susan has a dreadful night.
 
And Betty, half an hour ago,
On Johnny vile reflections cast:
“A little idle sauntering thing!”
With other names, an endless string.
But now that time is gone and past.
 
And Betty’s drooping at the heart.
That happy time all past and gone,
“How can it be he is so late?
The Doctor he has made him wait,
Susan! they’ll both be here anon.”
 
And Susan’s growing worse and worse,
And Betty’s in a sad quandary;
And then there’s nobody to say
If she must go or she must stay:
—She’s in a sad quandary.
 
The clock is on the stroke of one;
But neither Doctor nor his guide
Appear along the moonlight road,
There’s neither horse nor man abroad,
And Betty’s still at Susan’s side.
 
And Susan she begins to fear
Of sad mischances not a few,
That Johnny may perhaps be drown’d,
Or lost perhaps, and never found;
Which they must both for ever rue.
 
She prefaced half a hint of this
With, “God forbid it should be true!”
At the first word that Susan said
Cried Betty, rising from the bed,
“Susan, I’d gladly stay with you.”
 
“I must be gone, I must away,
Consider, Johnny’s but half-wise;
Susan, we must take care of him,
If he is hurt in life or limb”—
“Oh God forbid!” poor Susan cries.
 
“What can I do?” says Betty, going,
“What can I do to ease your pain?
Good Susan tell me, and I’ll stay;
I fear you’re in a dreadful way,
But I shall soon be back again.
 
“Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go!
There’s nothing that can ease my pain.
Then off she hies, but with a prayer
That God poor Susan’s life would spare,
Till she comes back again.
 
So, through the moonlight lane she goes,
And far into the moonlight dale;
And how she ran, and how she walked,
And all that to herself she talked,
Would surely be a tedious tale.
 
In high and low, above, below,
In great and small, in round and square,
In tree and tower was Johnny seen,
In bush and brake, in black and green,
‘Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.
 
She’s past the bridge that’s in the dale,
And now the thought torments her sore,
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,
To hunt the moon that’s in the brook,
And never will be heard of more.
 
And now she’s high upon the down,
Alone amid a prospect wide;
There’s neither Johnny nor his horse,
Among the fern or in the gorse;
There’s neither doctor nor his guide.
 
“Oh saints! what is become of him?
Perhaps he’s climbed into an oak,
Where he will stay till he is dead;
Or sadly he has been misled,
And joined the wandering gypsey-folk.”
 
“Or him that wicked pony’s carried
To the dark cave, the goblins’ hall,
Or in the castle he’s pursuing,
Among the ghosts, his own undoing;
Or playing with the waterfall,”
 
At poor old Susan then she railed,
While to the town she posts away;
“If Susan had not been so ill,
Alas! I should have had him still,
My Johnny, till my dying day.
 
Poor Betty! in this sad distemper,
The doctor’s self would hardly spare,
Unworthy things she talked and wild,
Even he, of cattle the most mild,
The pony had his share.
 
And now she’s got into the town,
And to the doctor’s door she hies;
‘Tis silence all on every side;
The town so long, the town so wide,
Is silent as the skies.
 
And now she’s at the doctor’s door,
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap,
The doctor at the casement shews,
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze;
And one hand rubs his old night-cap.
 
“Oh Doctor! Doctor! where’s my Johnny?”
“I’m here, what is’t you want with me?”
“Oh Sir! you know I’m Betty Foy,
And I have lost my poor dear boy,
You know him—him you often see;”
 
“He’s not so wise as some folks be,”
“The devil take his wisdom!” said
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,
“What, woman! should I know of him?”
And, grumbling, he went back to bed.
 
“O woe is me! O woe is me!
Here will I die; here will I die;
I thought to find my Johnny here,
But he is neither far nor near,
Oh! what a wretched mother I!”
 
She stops, she stands, she looks about,
Which way to turn she cannot tell.
Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
If she had heart to knock again;
—The clock strikes three—a dismal knell!
 
Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her senses fail,
This piteous news so much it shock’d her,
She quite forgot to send the Doctor,
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
 
And now she’s high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road,
“Oh cruel! I’m almost three-score;
Such night as this was ne’er before,
There’s not a single soul abroad.”
 
She listens, but she cannot hear
The foot of horse, the voice of man;
The streams with softest sound are flowing,
The grass you almost hear it growing,
You hear it now if e’er you can.
 
The owlets through the long blue night
Are shouting to each other still:
Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob,
They lengthen out the tremulous sob,
That echoes far from hill to hill.
 
Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin;
A green-grown pond she just has pass’d,
And from the brink she hurries fast,
Lest she should drown herself therein.
 
And now she sits her down and weeps;
Such tears she never shed before;
“Oh dear, dear pony! my sweet joy!
Oh carry back my idiot boy!
And we will ne’er o’erload thee more.”
 
A thought it come into her head;
“The pony he is mild and good,
And we have always used him well;
Perhaps he’s gone along the dell,
And carried Johnny to the wood.”
 
Then up she springs as if on wings;
She thinks no more of deadly sin;
If Betty fifty ponds should see,
The last of all her thoughts would be,
To drown herself therein.
 
Oh reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and his horse are doing!
What they’ve been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme,
A most delightful tale pursuing!
 
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
He with his pony now doth roam
The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
To lay his hands upon a star,
And in his pocket bring it home.
 
Perhaps he’s turned himself about,
His face unto his horse’s tail,
And still and mute, in wonder lost,
All like a silent horse-man ghost,
He travels on along the vale.
 
And now, perhaps, he’s hunting sheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he!
Yon valley, that’s so trim and green,
In five months’ time, should he be seen,
A desart wilderness will be.
 
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
And like the very soul of evil,
He’s galloping away, away,
And so he’ll gallop on for aye,
The bane of all that dread the devil.
 
I to the muses have been bound
These fourteen years, by strong indentures:
Oh gentle muses! let me tell
But half of what to him befel,
For sure he met with strange adventures.
 
Oh gentle muses! is this kind
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended leave me?
Ye muses! whom I love so well.
 
Who’s yon, that, near the waterfall,
Which thunders down with headlong force,
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,
As careless as if nothing were,
Sits upright on a feeding horse?
 
Unto his horse, that’s feeding free,
He seems, I think, the rein to give;
Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
Of such we in romances read,
—Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
 
And that’s the very pony too.
Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
She hardly can sustain her fears;
The roaring water-fall she hears,
And cannot find her idiot boy.
 
Your pony’s worth his weight in gold,
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
She’s coming from among the trees,
And now all full in view she sees
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.
 
And Betty sees the pony too:
Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy?
It is no goblin, ’tis no ghost,
‘Tis he whom you so long have lost,
He whom you love, your idiot boy.
 
She looks again-her arms are up—
She screams—she cannot move for joy;
She darts as with a torrent’s force,
She almost has o’erturned the horse,
And fast she holds her idiot boy.
 
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,
Whether in cunning or in joy,
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,
To hear again her idiot boy.
 
And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
And now she’s at the pony’s head,
On that side now, and now on this,
And almost stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed.
 
She kisses o’er and o’er again,
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy,
She’s happy here, she’s happy there.
She is uneasy everywhere;
Her limbs are all alive with joy.
 
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
The little pony glad may be,
But he is milder far than she,
You hardly can perceive his joy.
 
“Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
You’ve done your best, and that is all.”

She took the reins, when this was said,
And gently turned the pony’s head
From the loud water-fall.
 
By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was setting on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir,
Though yet their tongues were still.
 
The pony, Betty, and her boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, be-times abroad,
That hobbles up the steep rough road?
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?
 
Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,
And many dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her messenger and nurse;
And as her mind grew worse and worse,
Her body it grew better.
 
She turned, she toss’d herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
Point after point did she discuss;
And while her mind was fighting thus,
Her body still grew better.
 
“Alas! what is become of them?
These fears can never be endured,
I’ll to the wood.
“—The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed,
As if by magic cured.
 
Away she posts up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come,
She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting,
As ever was in Christendom.
 
The owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four travellers homeward wend;
The owls have hooted all night long,
And with the owls began my song,
And with the owls must end.
 
For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty, “Tell us Johnny, do,
Where all this long night you have been,
What you have heard, what you have seen,
And Johnny, mind you tell us true.”
 
Now Johnny all night long had heard
The owls in tuneful concert strive;
No doubt too he the moon had seen;
For in the moonlight he had been
From eight o’clock till five.
 
And thus to Betty’s question, he,
Made answer, like a traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)
“The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,
And the sun did shine so cold.”

—Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel’s story.

6. The Millers Tale

       by Geoffrey Chaucer

When that the Knight had thus his tale told
In all the rout was neither young nor old,
That he not said it was a noble story,
And worthy to be *drawen to memory*; *recorded*
And *namely the gentles* every one.
especially the gentlefolk*
Our Host then laugh’d and swore, “So may I gon,* *prosper
This goes aright; *unbuckled is the mail;* *the budget is opened*
Let see now who shall tell another tale:
For truely this game is well begun.

Now telleth ye, Sir Monk, if that ye conne*, *know
Somewhat, to quiten* with the Knighte’s tale.
” *match
The Miller that fordrunken was all pale,
So that unnethes* upon his horse he sat, *with difficulty
He would avalen* neither hood nor hat, *uncover
Nor abide* no man for his courtesy, *give way to
But in Pilate’s voice<1> he gan to cry,
And swore by armes, and by blood, and bones,
“I can a noble tale for the nones* *occasion,
With which I will now quite* the Knighte’s tale.
” *match
Our Host saw well how drunk he was of ale,
And said; “Robin, abide, my leve* brother, *dear
Some better man shall tell us first another:
Abide, and let us worke thriftily.”

By Godde’s soul,” quoth he, “that will not I,
For I will speak, or elles go my way!”
Our Host answer’d; “*Tell on a devil way*; *devil take you!*
Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome.”

“Now hearken,” quoth the Miller, “all and some:
But first I make a protestatioun.

That I am drunk, I know it by my soun’:
And therefore if that I misspeak or say,
*Wite it* the ale of Southwark, I you pray: *blame it on*<2>
For I will tell a legend and a life
Both of a carpenter and of his wife,
How that a clerk hath *set the wrighte’s cap*.
” *fooled the carpenter*
The Reeve answer’d and saide, “*Stint thy clap*, *hold your tongue*
Let be thy lewed drunken harlotry.

It is a sin, and eke a great folly
To apeiren* any man, or him defame, *injure
And eke to bringe wives in evil name.

Thou may’st enough of other thinges sayn.”

This drunken Miller spake full soon again,
And saide, “Leve brother Osewold,
Who hath no wife, he is no cuckold.

But I say not therefore that thou art one;
There be full goode wives many one.

Why art thou angry with my tale now?
I have a wife, pardie, as well as thou,
Yet *n’old I*, for the oxen in my plough, *I would not*
Taken upon me more than enough,
To deemen* of myself that I am one; *judge
I will believe well that I am none.

An husband should not be inquisitive
Of Godde’s privity, nor of his wife.

So he may finde Godde’s foison* there, *treasure
Of the remnant needeth not to enquere.

What should I more say, but that this Millere
He would his wordes for no man forbear,
But told his churlish* tale in his mannere; *boorish, rude
Me thinketh, that I shall rehearse it here.

And therefore every gentle wight I pray,
For Godde’s love to deem not that I say
Of evil intent, but that I must rehearse
Their tales all, be they better or worse,
Or elles falsen* some of my mattere.
 *falsify
And therefore whoso list it not to hear,
Turn o’er the leaf, and choose another tale;
For he shall find enough, both great and smale,
Of storial* thing that toucheth gentiless, *historical, true
And eke morality and holiness.

Blame not me, if that ye choose amiss.

The Miller is a churl, ye know well this,
So was the Reeve, with many other mo’,
And harlotry* they tolde bothe two.
 *ribald tales
*Avise you* now, and put me out of blame; *be warned*
And eke men should not make earnest of game*.
 *jest, fun

7. The Owl and The Sparrow

       by John Trumbull

In elder days, in Saturn’s prime,
Ere baldness seized the head of Time,
While truant Jove, in infant pride,
Play’d barefoot on Olympus’ side,
Each thing on earth had power to chatter,
And spoke the mother tongue of nature.

Each stock or stone could prate and gabble,
Worse than ten labourers of Babel.

Along the street, perhaps you’d see
A Post disputing with a Tree,
And mid their arguments of weight,
A Goose sit umpire of debate.

Each Dog you met, though speechless now,
Would make his compliments and bow,
And every Swine with congees come,
To know how did all friends at home.

Each Block sublime could make a speech,
In style and eloquence as rich,
And could pronounce it and could pen it,
As well as Chatham in the senate.

Old Crow Poems

Old poems about crows offer a glimpse into the history of this unique form of poetry, showcasing how the symbolism of the crow has been used to explore the human experience throughout the ages.

1. The Cunning Old Crow

       by Anonymous

On the limb of an oak sat a cunning old crow,
And chatted away with glee,
As he saw the old farmer go out to sow,
And he cried, “It’s all for me!
“Look, look, how he scatters his seeds around;
How wonderfully kind to the poor!
If he’d empty it down in a pile on the ground,
I could find it much better, I’m sure!
“I’ve learned all the tricks of this wonderful man,
Who has such regard for the crow
That he lays out his grounds in a regular plan,
And covers his corn in a row.
“He must have a very great fancy for me;
He tries to entrap me enough,
But I measure his distance as well as he,
And when he comes near, I’m off.”

2. The Crow

       by John Burroughs

Never plaintive nor appealing,
Quite at home when thou art stealing,
Always groomed to tip of feather,
Calm and trim in every weather,
Morn till night my woods policing,
Every sound thy watch increasing.
Hawk and owl in treetop hiding
Feel the shame of thy deriding.
Naught escapes thy observation,
None but dread thy accusation.

3. Crow Discovers Gaia’s Favorite Tree in the Forest of Fey

      by Caren Krutsinger

A tired ebony crow lands on Gaia’s favorite tree in the forest of fey.
Immediately feels a unique pulse of heartbeat from the tree’s bark.
Naturally, has no idea that the tree roots originated in Lyla’s grave.
She was a giving, loving, selfless woman in the sixteen hundreds.
A mother of several happy children, a wife of a contented farmer.

Crow returns often, studying the forest floor for tasty edibles.
This is a fabulous perch to wait for night-crawlers in the rain.
Lyla’s spirit is comfortable with crow, she feeds him positive thoughts.
Nurturing in transition as much as she did on this side of the veil.
He relaxes when he senses his presence, she is his best friend now.

4. Obsequies for a Queen

      by Andrew John

Are we – crow, blackbird, sparrow –
aware of what is occurring?
We cannot tell, they assume,
but gape and gaze from up here.

This is a land with a new monarch.
We – sparrow, blackbird, crow –
flit or sit above the richness
of that marching red regalia.

Thousands of arms stretch, sinews strain,
cameras are held aloft
to catch the start of this queen’s obsequies,
such elegance, such grace.

We – blackbird, crow, sparrow –
observe orb and sceptre on the magnificent pall,
witness the splendour, the spectacle,
delight in the sound of vocal souls.

Millions have viewed that coffin.
We – crow, blackbird, sparrow – see them gaping, gazing,
with its eight pallbearers, in their blood-red flame,
as this Abbey welcomes what they carry.

5. The Raven

       by Edgar Allan Poe 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
“Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

6. Ravens and Crows

       by Phila Rogers

When I was a child
There were no crows
in San Francisco
no wild crows
sleek, black and full
of harsh, assaulting song.

Claude, you have a faulty view of my kin,
Our Corvus family is not responsible
For foot-tracks around your eyes
Or measuring a straight flying distance.
We would not stoop to the metaphor
abasement, such as ‘eating human.’
When the crows come
black against the darkening sky
their wings obscure the sun
and small sounds drown
in their strident caws. 
 
They storm the walnut tree
snatch the green fruit
drop it from great heights
retrieve the cracked kernels.
 
Again and again they dive
From tree to ground
feathers gleaming
where stray sunrays touch.
 
And when the mountains turn blue
with the haze of evening
the crows lift off in ebony formation
head toward some secret roost
where they blend into the night.

Crow Poems That Rhyme

Poems about crow with rhyme add a musical quality to the raw and powerful imagery of the crow, creating a haunting and memorable experience for the reader.

1. The Crow

       by John Burroughs

Hunters, prowlers, woodland lovers
Vainly seek the leafy covers.
Noisy, scheming, and predacious,
With demeanor almost gracious,
Dowered with leisure, void of hurry,
Void of fuss and void of worry,
Friendly bandit, Robin Hood,
Judge and jury of the wood,
Or Captain Kidd of sable quill,
Hiding treasures in the hill,
Nature made thee for each season,
Gave thee wit for ample reason,
Good crow wit that’s always burnished
Like the coat her care has furnished.
May thy numbers ne’er diminish!
I’ll befriend thee till life’s finish.
May I never cease to meet thee!
May I never have to eat thee!
And mayest thou never have to fare so
That thou playest the part of scarecrow!

2. The Crow

       by William Canton

With rakish eye and plenished crop,
Oblivious of the farmer’s gun,
Upon the naked ash-tree top
The Crow sits basking in the sun.
An old ungodly rogue, I wot!
For, perched in black against the blue,
His feathers, torn with beak and shot,
Let woeful glints of April through.
The year’s new grass, and, golden-eyed,
The daisies sparkle underneath,
And chestnut-trees on either side
Have opened every ruddy sheath.
But doubtful still of frost and snow,
The ash alone stands stark and bare,
And on its topmost twig the Crow
Takes the glad morning’s sun and air.

3. The Crow

       by Frank Bolles

Then it is a distant cawing,
Growing louder—coming nearer,
Tells of crows returning inland
From their winter on the marshes.
Iridescent is their plumage,
Loud their voices, bold their clamor,
In the pools and shallows wading;
Or in overflowing meadows
Searching for the waste of winter—
Scraps and berries freed by thawing.
Weird their notes, and hoarse their croaking;
Silent only when the night comes.

4. The Jackdaw

       by William Cowper

There is a bird, who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where bishop-like he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate
From what point blows the weather;
Look up—your brains begin to swim,
‘Tis in the clouds—that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-show,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No: not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its medley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs, and its businesses
Is no concern at all of his,
And says—what says he?—”Caw.”
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen ’em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between ’em.

5. Tweedledum and Tweedledee

       by Anonymous

Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Agreed to have a battle;
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
Just then flew down a monstrous crow,
As black as a tar-barrel;
Which frightened both the heroes so,
They quite forgot their quarrel.

Crow Poems for Funerals

Crow poems on funerals use the symbolism of the crow to explore themes of death, mourning, and loss, capturing the bittersweet nature of the final farewell. Let’s see these poems about crows and death.

1. Death Comes Like A Crow

       by Elizabeth Duran

On hallowed ground behind the etched-stone marker
Roses, withered, shriveled, disturbed by crows,
Now unwillingly tumble and scatter to the after
Like wisps of nothingness colliding with the blows

Of empty wind. When will this torment end?
A single stem, bare, not a thorn to prick;
A bitter reminder that a stem can bend
In many ways and still, be destroyed by wind.

Carried off by talons of a black raven beast,
Stem gone, petals lost, tears dried by passing time
Alone. Since then, the cold vicious winds have ceased
To exist, and yet, like a grandfather reliant on its chime,

Crows return with a crave to defecate on them again,
And hunt for roses laid a top of someone’s bitter end.

2. Black Crow Mojo

       by Leanne Lovejoy-Burton

I walk within my Cave of Dreams
Labyrinths that forever wind and turn
Deeper I journey inwards and evermore inwards
Keeping close the keys to secret doorways to
The Outer World.

Am I looking for her?
The Long Lost Girl?
Or am I leading you further
And further, into my arms,
Into the arms of my wonderful world?

Like breadcrumbs,
I am dropping you all my precious pearls.

I am the Phoenix Warrior Woman
Adorned in Black Crow Feathers
Robe of Mojo Courage.

Now I am standing in your world
I stand on The Outside
Waiting
And watching you
In your Lost Dark World

3. Crow and the Birds

       by Ted Hughes 

When the eagle soared clear through a dawn distilling of emerald
When the curlew trawled in sea dusk through a chime of wineglasses
When the swallow swooped through a woman‘s song in a
cavern And the swift flicked through the breath of a violet

When the owl sailed clear of tomorrow‘s conscience
And the sparrow preened himself of yesterday‘s promise
And the heron labored clear of the Bessemer up glare
And the bluetit zipped clear of lace panties

And the woodpecker drummed clear of the rotovator and the rose-farm
And the peewit tumbled clear of the Laundromat
While the bullfinch plumped in the apple bud
And the goldfinch bulbed in the sun

And the wryneck crooked in the moon
And the dipper peered from the dewball
Crow spraddled head-down in the beach-garbage, guzzling
a dropped ice-cream.

4. Two Legends

       by Ted Hughes

Black was the without eye
Black the within tongue
Black was the heart
Black the liver, black the lungs
Unable to suck in light
Black the blood in its loud tunnel
Black the bowels packed in furnace
Black too the muscles
Striving to pull out into the light
Black the nerves, black the brain
With its tombed visions
Black also the soul, the huge stammer
Of the cry that, welling, could not
Pronounce its sun.

5. Lineage

       by Ted Hughes

In the beginning was Scream
Who begat Blood
Who begat Eye
Who begat Fear
Who begat Wing
Who begat Bone
Who begat Granite
Who begat Violet
Who begat Guitar
Who begat Sweat
Who begat Adam
Who begat Mary
Who begat God
Who begat Nothing
Who begat Never
Never Never Never
Who begat Crow

Screaming for Blood
Grubs, crusts

Trembling featherless elbows in the nest’s filth

Ted Hughes Crow Poems

Crow poems by Ted Hughes are a masterful exploration of the darkness and power of the crow as a symbol of death and renewal, delving deep into the human experience.

1. Crow and the Sea

       by Ted Hughes

He tried ignoring the sea
But it was bigger than death, just as it was bigger than life.

He tried talking to the sea
But his brain shuttered and his eyes winced from it as from open flame.

He tried sympathy for the sea
But it shouldered him off – as a dead thing shoulders you off.

He tried hating the sea
But instantly felt like a scrutty dry rabbit-dropping on the windy cliff

He tried just being in the same world as the sea
But his lungs were not deep enough

And his cheery blood banged off it
Like a water-drop off a hot stove.

Finally

He turned his back and he marched away from the sea

As a crucified man cannot move.

2. Crow’s Fall

       by Ted Hughes

When Crow was white he decided the sun was too white.
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.

He got his strength up flush and in full glitter.
He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
He aimed his beak direct at the sun’s centre.

He laughed himself to the centre of himself

And attacked.

At his battle cry trees grew suddenly old,
Shadows flattened.

But the sun brightened—
It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.

He opened his mouth but what came out was charred black.

“Up there,” he managed,
“Where white is black and black is white, I won.”

3. Crow and Mama

       by Ted Hughes

When Crow cried his mother’s ear
Scorched to a stump.
 
When he laughed she wept
Blood her breasts her palms her brow all wept blood.
 
He tried a step, then a step, and again a step –
Every one scarred her face forever.
 
When he burst out in rage
She fell back with an awful gash and a fearful cry.
 
When he stopped she closed on him like a book
On a bookmark, he had to get going.
 
He jumped into the car the towrope
Was around her neck he jumped out.
 
He jumped into the plane but her body was jammed in the jet –
There was a great row, the flight was cancelled.
 
He jumped into the rocket and its trajectory
Drilled clean through her heart he kept on

And it was cosy in the rocket, he could not see much
But he peered out through the portholes at Creation

And saw the stars millions of miles away
And saw the future and the universe

Opening and opening
And kept on and slept and at last

Crashed on the moon awoke and crawled out

Under his mother’s buttocks.

4. Crow Alights

       by Ted Hughes

Crow saw the herded mountains, steaming
in the morning. And he saw the sea
Dark-spined, with the whole earth in its coils.
He saw the stars, fuming away into the black, mushrooms of
the nothing forest, clouding their spores, the virus of God.
And he shivered with the horror of Creation.

In the hallucination of the horror
He saw this shoe, with no sole, rain-sodden,
Lying on a moor.
And there was this garbage can, bottom rusted away,
A playing place for the wind, in a waste of puddles.

There was this coat, in the dark cupboard,
in the silent room, in the silent house.
There was this face, smoking its cigarette between the dusk
window and the fire’s embers.

Near the face, this hand, motionless.
Near the hand, this cup.
Crow blinked. He blinked. Nothing faded.
He stared at the evidence.
Nothing escaped him. (Nothing could escape.)

5. Crow’s Theology

       By Ted Hughes

Crow realized God loved him-
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.
So that was proved.
Crow reclined, marveling, on his heart-beat.

And he realized that God spoke Crow-
Just existing was His revelation.

But what Loved the stones and spoke stone?
They seemed to exist too.
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded?

And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows?
What spoke the silence of lead?

Crow realized there were two Gods-
One of them much bigger than the other
loving his enemies
and having all the weapons. Genius Annotation1 contributor

6. Crow’s Tyrannosaurus

       by Ted Hughes

Creation quaked voices
It was a cortège
Of mourning and lament
Crow could hear and he looked around fearfully.

The swift‘s body fled past
Pulsating
With insects
And their anguish, all it had eaten.

The cat‘s body writhed
Gagging
A tunnel
Of incoming death-struggles, sorrow on sorrow.
And the dog was a bulging filterbag
Of all the deaths it had gulped for the flesh and the bones.
It could not digest their screeching finales.
Its shapeless cry was a blort of all those voices.

Even man he was a walking
Abattoir
Of innocents—
His brain incinerating their outcry.

Crow thought ‘Alas
Alas ought I
To stop eating
And try to become the light?‘

But his eye saw a grub. And his head, trapsprung, stabbed.
And he listened
And he heard
Weeping

Grubs grubs He stabbed he stabbed
Weeping
Weeping

Weeping he walked and stabbed
Thus came the eye’s
roundness
the ear’s
deafness.

7. Crow Communes

        by Ted Hughes

“Well,” said Crow, “What first?”
God, exhausted with Creation, snored.
“Which way?” said Crow, “Which way first?”
God’s shoulder was the mountain on which Crow sat.
“Come,” said Crow, “Let’s discuss the situation.”
God lay, agape, a great carcass.

Crow tore off a mouthful and swallowed.
“Will this cipher divulge itself to digestion
Under hearing beyond understanding?”
Yet, it’s true, he suddenly felt much stronger.
Crow, the hierophant, humped, impenetrable.
Half-illumined. Speechless.

8. Crow Goes Hunting

       by Ted Hughes

Crow
Decided to try words.

He imagined some words for the job, a lovely pack-
Clear-eyed, resounding, well-trained,
With strong teeth.
You could not find a better bred lot.

He pointed out the hare and away went the words
resounding.
Crow was Crow without fail, but what is a hare?
It converted itself to a concrete bunker.
The words circled protesting, resounding.

Crow turned the words into bombs-they blasted the bunker.
The bits of bunker flew up-a flock of starlings.
Crow turned the words into shotguns, they shot down the starlings.
The falling starlings turned to a cloudburst.

Crow turned the words into a reservoir, collecting the water.
The water turned into an earthquake, swallowing the reservoir.

The earthquake turned into a hare and leaped for the hill
Having eaten Crow’s words.

Crow gazed after the bounding hare
Speechless with admiration.

Robert Frost Crow Poems

Crow poems by Robert Frost offer a unique perspective on this dark and powerful symbol, weaving the imagery of the crow into his exploration of the human experience and nature.

1. Dust of Snow

       by Robert Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

2. The Road Not Taken

       by Robert Frost 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Crow Poems for Sorrow

Crow poems on sorrow use the haunting imagery of the crow to delve into the depths of human despair, capturing the raw emotions of grief and loss in powerful and unforgettable ways.

1. Why Does the Crow Cry

       by Freddie Robinson Jr.

Many moons ago,
a languishing lamentation flow
carved a grievous path
in the red soil

Defying moral gravity,
downtrodden fallow weeps
flowed upward to the heavens
With river Nile ease

Native American Exodus
wasn’t done willingly
Oh, how the Five Nations
were saber led forcibly!

Time traveling eyes
need not ask why
Oh, why does the Crow cry?

Ask rather, why did the crimson-winged Eagle
tell a bald-faced lie?

Many blood moons ago,
there was an Abib scarlet woe flow
Rapid gushes making a slow, sorrowful path
Towards barren adobe Reservations

Defying logic gravity,
nether voices
offered an uprooted exchange

Trade Choctaw fertile land
(whereupon Creek footfall doth Seminole stand)
for Chickasaw burial sand

Miry ground
to baleful irrigation
live sadly on

Trail of Tears Exodus
was a lamentation overflow undertaking
Oh, how the Five Nations
were talon misled horridly!

Perpetual Cherokee tears
for the living dead is levee heartbreaking

Posterity passenger eyes
need not ask why
Oh, why does the Crow cry?

Ask rather,
‘why did the granite-hearted Eagle
let so many weary souls die?

2. Last Ride, The Crow

       by Michael Scribner

Sitting in the corner looking out my window
Is it real this time or just a shadow
I spot that old black crow
Then I for sure truly know
A new bottle whiskey comforting me
Who is that coming up fast upon me I see
Another demon searching for me again
From a blurry haze I raise my lingering chin
The reaper has his scythe pointed right at my heart
Is this the true breaking point trying to tear it all apart
A longing still burning in my old lost soul
Same familiar stinging and gaping hole
My mind lost of all thoughts shared
Pondering if anyone ever truly cared
Slip right into my own personal fantasy
My grand and cherished escape from reality
The only words that matter are the ones left unspoken
And the only true good ones left are ever so broken
Looking into the mirror reflecting the one I’ve become
Painfully and slowly fading all who have gone and have come
Once friends turned enemies Such as remaining memories
The one me no longer dwells here
Emotionless the only feeling left fear
Fear for who I am from this point on
The one I once was back then is now gone
Faded away such as my empathy
For all cruel people left no more sympathy
If this is the end of me Just let it all just be
Let me burn out with pride
As I take my very last ride
A sad song I ride put on to
So goodbye I now say to you

3. Crow

       by Tania Kitchin

I am more than just a black bird called a crow
I like to play, prank and even steal things as
I go I mimic sounds and sometimes human voices
And coo and caw when people hear my noises

I am loyal to my followers and my human fans
I leave gifts, watching to see them in their hands
I am making warning calls as I guard your land
Caw, coo, caw, click, if you could only understand

I am nesting now near my favorite human lady
In a fir tree, where the boughs are lush and shady
I see her daily, as she talks to me and leaves a treat
I coo, and caw, I just love her and think she’s sweet

She even honors me by her decorations of my kind
Makes feels me loved, safe and with peace of mind

Caw, caw, coo, caw, and hope she hears my morning call
Now cooing softly, I am content here, I have it all!

4. The Crow in the Night

       by Anonymous

I was at the bar tonight – I’m sorry, father
I am the crow of the night, so don’t bother,
Releasing me, for I have wings of flight already
I bore these scars for far too long…the stars are my confetti…

I’m feeling lonely tonight
I’m not that bright, alright?
I’m swimming in my emptiness
I’m flying too high into this mess

The tablet and I are in love again…love again…
Technology has taken advantaged of me
Then again, it makes me feel good and then…
Someone has to bully me online…you see?

I have been in so many bars
To try to thrill me in many ways…many ways
In His eyes, I am like a billion stars
I’m just going through one of those days
I must rise above the waters of woe

I must drive out the lies of your goodbyes
I am that lonesome crow, you know?
Change is a challenging chore…yeah, no lies…
I am restless and can’t seem to shut my mind down

I am confident that tomorrow will lift up my frown
Grieve not, love of mine, for I am no longer sad
Leave not, darling angel, for I am no longer mad
I am the silence amongst crowds

I am the leather amongst your loads
Your laundry pile makes me smile
Because my own is less than style
I believe there are brighter days out there

I am the introvert amongst extroverts
Tear away the sorrow from within oh so bear
Comfort me in the shadows…it hurts…
I’m soaring too low in my slight distress

I’m ascending from my sheer emptiness
I’m feeling no longer lonely tonight
Will you be my one and only friend?
You shed some light upon my night

Will you be my best friend till the end?
I’m descending from my horrifying fears
I’m rising above the ashes of our nightmares

5. Rooster Lost His Crow

       by connie pachecho

I wanted to enter her barn door
I wanted her farm to the very core
She said no, we lost rapport
Our tongues then went to war
Our bulls hoofed in ink galore
She fell deaf to my words implore
I wanted her farm to the very core
Our paths lonely forevermore

6. In My Yard, A Yard Meditation

       by M. L. Kiser

In my yard, chitter-chatter resounds;
grey squirrels ordering me to,
leave the pears on the ground for them.
I glance slowly upwards,
seeing one nearly fall from an electric wire;
intuitively, I know he has a sore paw from
a piece of broken glass.
I watch him half-scurry down the pole to
the branch of an awaiting tree.

McGuire, a dove born on my AC,
zooms by to say “Hello, remember me”?
Wings alight upon the current of a spring breeze.
Oh, how he does love to show off.
I chuckle at his antics
as he races past me and zooms eastward.

A scuffling among parrot tulips
reveals two chipmunks playing chase…
“lookout!” I hear a tiny voice in my head.
A chuckle erupts from my throat as they scurry
up the gutter and back down twice.

I hear, “Caw…caw…caw”, from a crow above;
“Don’t disturb my babies!” She caws
and lands in the aging pin oak.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I tell her
in my head and she calms.

I breathe in the dulcet scent of damask rose,
riding upon a questing breeze.
A baby garter snake zooms by my foot;
I stop thinking, I don’t want to step
on accompanying siblings.

The sweep of another full breeze
tells me my cherry-vanilla lilies are in bloom.
I planted them at the end of the yard
to draw ants away from my door;
they do their job so well.

I settle on a bench beneath a blossoming pear tree;
listen to its song upon the air and eyes closed,
I revel in brother Sun’s warm breath.

Crow Poems about Love

Crow poems on love use the symbol of the crow to explore the complexities of human relationships, offering a unique perspective on the joys and sorrows of love and the human experience.

1. Crow Loves Turtle Dove

       by Anonymous

Vampire bat with an injured wing.
Swoops through the air with a bit of a swing.
Crow drops down with a caw and a ring.
It is glamorous, a really shiny new thing.

What will you do with it the bat asks?
I’ll put it in her nest, next to the flask.
Is that wine? The bat asks with alarm.
Knowing that drunk crows lose their charm.

Sure says the crow. It’s no big deal.
They soon hear her calling him a heel.
The engagement did not work out this time.
He came back sober, with a shiny dime.

Okay, she agreed, but I want the ring too.
A greedy crow, but what could he do?
He had fallen flat out head over heels in love.
With this cute little number, sexy turtledove.

2. Confetti Kiss

       by Karen Jones

Storm into my heart with your blues
And make them my own
Eclipse my emerald eyes in such passion
I will never feel alone
Rain upon my neck with nuptial nibbles
Like black crow consuming flesh
Flood my face with colorful laces kisses
Sweet like cake slippery like fish
Bring me your love be it long overdue
Like communion Sunday sermon blessed true
Full of red brown and blues like your love
So hot yet so cool.

3. The Crow

       by John Burroughs

My friend and neighbor through the year,
Self-appointed overseer
Of my crops of fruit and grain,
Of my woods and furrowed plain,
Claim thy tithings right and left,
I shall never call it theft.
Nature wisely made the law,
And I fail to find a flaw
In thy title to the earth,
And all It holds of any worth.
I like thy self-complacent air,
I like thy ways so free from care,
Thy landlord stroll about my fields,
Quickly noting what each yields;
Thy courtly mien and bearing bold,
As if thy claim were bought with gold;
Thy floating shape against the sky,
When days are calm and clouds are high;
Thy thrifty flight ere rise of sun,
Thy homing clans when day is done.
Hues protective are not thine,
So sleek thy coat each quill doth shine.
Diamond black to end of toe,
Thy counter point the crystal snow.

4. Advice From Mama Oak

       by Anonymous

Mama Oak decided to listen to the little crow.
She had seen him approach, and his flight was slow.
She wondered if the youngster had far to go.
He was not loud like other crows, there was no show.

You seem down she told him, but stop, please, whoa.
Okay, mumbled the strange, shy, abnormal tiny crow.
He told her his problems, which had seemed to grow.
Giving advice, she was totally wise, and seemed to know

5. The Daily Crow

       by Anonymous 

Like the Zues to Prometheous
You’ve gifted me a cruel fate
My heart is torn, my love you hate.
A crow greets me to eat my heart,
For it to heal, then be eaten again.

My love, my pain, my shattered dreams,
You’ve left me lost in silent screams.
You ask if we can stay friends,

But I must pretend your words
Don’t make my heart rend.

For every day, I see your face,
The ghost of you, in every place.
Though you don’t love me, still you stay,
Knowing I don’t have the power to go away.

I lock the door to my heart,
But you hold the master key,
It’s a punishment I must endure,
Loving you, forevermore.

But I’ll hold on to the memories,
Of the love that used to be.
And though my heart is broken,
I’ll keep the love, forever unspoken.

6. The Crow

       by ANDY Ervin

One grey day i felt the sky start falling
As the big black crow came calling
He brings a message, nobody wants to hear
He brings the message that we all fear
I try to ignore him over and over
Though he returns like a wondering drover
He brings the voice from spirits above
Calling you home to share their love
Day by day he returns to me
Watching and waiting, standing over me
Weeks go by, his message is clear
And i receive the news that we all do fear
His job is done, i see him no more
I accept his message and now I’m sure
I know the future as i walk through that door
I am not scared of what’s on the other side
When the crow comes calling, there is nowhere to hide

7. Cuckoo Crow Agape

       by Christ Raj Alex

As though treasure lost
Cuckoo chirps in rhyme hiccups
Eggs lay in crow’s nest
She knows crow will care her chicks
For mother, every child’s hers

Does cuckoo trick crow
Persuading care for her chicks
Could one fully know? 
Nature’s rhythm that calculates
The roles of cuckoo and crow

While crow shelters all
Cuckoo brings food abundant
Each one protects all
No true parasitism found
Agape is the norm profound

8. Magpie and Crow Love

       by Caren Krutsinger

Raymond Magpie fell in love with a crow.
When she was around, he was a glow.
It cannot be true!
Said Mother Prue.
I will bring him home by his big toe.
So she did what she said she was going to do.
She dragged Raymond Magpie by his left shoe.
There he stays Pinning his days
Wishing his mama was not a racist shrew.

Final Thoughts

In conclusion, crow poems offer a powerful and unique way to explore the depths of human emotion and experience.

From the haunting imagery of the crow to the raw power of the symbolism it represents, these poems challenge us to confront the darkness within and find meaning in the midst of suffering.

Whether short or long, famous or lesser-known, poems for crows continue to captivate readers and offer a cathartic release for the raw emotions of grief, sorrow, and despair.

As we delve into the depths of this dark and powerful symbol, we come away with a deeper understanding of the complexities of the human experience and a newfound appreciation for the power of poetry.