Classic Poem

In a high wood
Where great trees on their tree-trunks stood,
I seemed as one
Lost with the giants of an age bygone.

A small bird sung
And those old trees were once more young,
Their upper wood
Renewing spring with a faint flush of blood.

I lifted eyes
And saw their tangled tributaries
That to earth sunk
Condensed in the broad river of tree-trunk.

High in those trees
Rooks built their storm-bound villages,
Nest on dark nest
Swaying at rest on the trees' frail unrest.

They cawed and cawed
Till I felt stricken like a man outlawed,
And ill at ease
I sheltered under tempest of those trees.

Then I went out
Where silent grass gave a loud shout;
Looking behind
I saw them like black crosses on the wind.