IN CHURCH

IN the choir the boys are singing the hymn.

The morning light on their lips

Moves in silver-moist flashes, in musical trim.

Sudden outside the high window, one crow

Hangs in the air

And lights on a withered oak-tree's top of woe.

One bird, one blot, folded and still at the top

Of the withered tree!— in the grail

Of crystal heaven falls one full black drop.

Like a soft full drop of darkness it seems to sway

In the tender wine

Of our Sabbath, suffusing our sacred day.