Nor ever known, the willow tree, as through the ages curséd be,
Expressed its dying virtue in its endless seeping tears.
And all the while vaguest fears unduly served the raven's years,
Who perched atop the willow's beard the curse at once set free.
The raven croaked its croak times three and flew at once into the sea
Above the willow's dying boughs, below the moonlight's glee.
If ever loved a beast death more, the moon till death would it abhor,
And so it gazed upon the willow's frothy, ancient hoar.
Into the west the bird digressed; its faint and lofty callings wept
Of friendships lost and burdens saved 'neath midnight's pressing lore.
It flew and flew in pained retreat, as if escape might yet it greet,
But never did the wicked woe of moonlight quit its feat.
When willow let its dying will beseech the earth its fate to still,
The moon in all its mighty skill could little to defend.
The morrow came to moonlight rend; to midnights elsewhere did it send,
And there it shone in majesty too mighty to ignore.
The raven in its frenzied flight took never notice of the light
And flew until the western shore of heaven came in sight.
Alas, alas, the raven fell from highest heaven to a hell
Where never even willow trees in all their patience could endure;
Where never dared the moon to gaze in all the might of all its days,
Although there lived a race of ways that brought more death than he.

The raven croaked its croak times three and lay there dying in a sea
Of living iron giants it had never hoped to see.

1/18/05