Classic Poem

With rakish eye and plenished crop,
— Oblivious of the farmer's gun,
Upon the naked ash-tree top
— The Crow sits basking in the sun.

An old ungodly rogue, I wot!
— For, perched in black against the blue,
His feathers, torn with beak and shot,
— Let woeful glints of April through.

The year's new grass, and, golden-eyed,
— The daisies sparkle underneath,
And chestnut-trees on either side
— Have opened every ruddy sheath.

But doubtful still of frost and snow,
— The ash alone stands stark and bare,
And on its topmost twig the Crow
— Takes the glad morning's sun and air.