The Crow
I
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 counterpoint the crystal snow.
II
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.
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poem by John Burroughs
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