Here the black crows gather; Here the herons wadeAlong the amber shallows, Far from their willow shade.Here the patient clams Trail out their senseless scrawls,And here the glassy tide Breaks white in sudden squalls.
Driftwood lodges here, Polished and smooth and grey,Washed down from above the Falls Hundreds of miles away;Shingles thin as paper, Rafters and tide-worn planksRipped from bridges and ferries When the river topped her banks.
Here the loud crows gather: Here the slim terns flyWith curved wings flashed like silver Against the cobalt sky:Here the whitecaps ride When the wind blows up at dawn;And here the plovers cry When wind and sun are gone.
