Classic Poem

To this cadaverous bough is come
The sorriest crow in Christendom
Bitter of eye and blue of beak,
Plumed lustrelessly in a bleak
Acquiescence, huddled in
Torpor gaunt and aquiline;
Gibbeted upon this bough,
What has brought him here, and how,
Inked against the snow and set
In a sullen silhouette?
Let us leave him, let him be
Quarantined from inquiry:
Leave him to his own fierce proof —
Defiant, final, and aloof:
He will have it out alone
And this bough will be his stone;
He will stiffen: his will be
A black immortality.