Rooks

Charles Sorley

1895 to 1915

Poem Image
Track 1

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That know, and cannot put away,
Will understand them, what they say.
Still trouble all the trees with cries,
The world is half-content. But they
There, where the rusty iron lies,
The rooks are cawing all the day.
The slow wind waits for night to rise.
The yearning to the soul that flies
The evening makes the sky like clay.
Perhaps no man, until he dies,
From day to night, from night to day.

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