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It is dawn; the dreary month of May,
I rove the shore of a weary bay;
In dread and terror, (as one might say),
The spring of God fades away,
The darkness grows,
And--ah,yes, the hum, and drum, of crows--
Hear the sty doctrine of the bird;
Blood and ice; they are its word.
A fate of death, their tune compels;
To wax and wane, their song foretells.
Through the breadth of God's great sphere,
Their prophecy roars; ear-to-ear,
Their chirp--their song!--is an opposer of blight.
Their cadence; their hymn, burns through the night.
What a malevolent melody of fear!
Their death draws nigh; they must not hear!
The crows--yes crows!
Rows, upon rows!
They reap, and they sow,]
The earth's stygian woe!
Dreams of dreamers lie suppressed in their beak;
Their lurid eyes; their nocturnal mystique!
They soar in high places,
Bestowing their cry,
Upon all mortal men, dreaming to die.