The Great War

from Poems, an electronic edition

The Late, Last Rook

The old gilt vane and spire receive

The last beam eastward striking;

The first shy bat to peep at eve

Has found her to his liking.

The western heaven is dull and grey,

The last red glow has followed day.

The late, last rook is housed and will

With cronies lie till morrow;

If there's a rook loquacious still

In dream he hunts a furrow,

And flaps behind a spectre team,

Or ghostly scarecrows walk his dream.