26 THE CROWS (A comment on Rimbaud's Les corbeaux} Lord, when I am numb, alone, When, in my small, domestic room The heart has quietly turned to stone, I hear again a cry of doom And think of Rimbaud's odd delights Descending from symbolic heights. I do not know what winds attack Their unseen nests on roof or tree Where scores of them may wheel and clack, But Rimbaud's ancient Calvary Imagined of the common road Consoles me with my different code. Strange birds -- as Rimbaud said -- Les chers corbeanx deliciezix^ I hear them from my narrow bed, I do not love, I only fear Their cries of hidden duty's word, Unwelcome, loud, funereal bird. But, saints of heaven, on mango-trees Lost in the gloomy close of day, Join the birds of June, I say, And caw in distant branch or breeze; But let me be -- with no retreat, Bound by Rimbaud's old defeat.