The Crows
The woman who has grown old And knows desire must die, Yet turns to love again, Hears the crows' cry.
She is a stem long hardened, A weed that no scythe mows. The heart's laughter will be to her The crying of the crows.
Who slide in the air with the same voice Over what yields not, and what yields, Alike in spring, and when there is only bitter Winter-burning in the fields.
Louise Bogan