The Rookery

Methought, as I beheld the rookery pass
Homeward at dusk upon the rising wind,
How every heart in that close-flying mass
Was well befriended by th' Almighty mind:
He marks each sable wing that soars or drops,
He sees them forth at morning to their fare,
He sets them floating on His evening air,
He sends them home to rest on the tree-tops:
And when through umbered leaves the night-winds pour
With lusty impulse rocking all the grove —
The stress is measured by an eye of love,
No root is burst, though all the branches roar;
And, in the morning, cheerly as before,
The dark clan talks, the social instincts move.