The Crows At Washington.

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