The Raven

Black bird who soars and chirps and sings,
are they wings of Death; or Death on wings?

Betwixt these strange and measly things,
black circles lurk in ghastly rings.
All through the night they make no sound,
but Death, he makes the world go round.
And some you hope their lies will end,
but some things only Death can mend.

When soil this earth must undergo,
when no man's land will ne'er reap nor sew,
we'll remember the words from Edgar Allen Poe
as words not in misery and not in woe.

For truth he seeked and truth he saw,
"Quaffed the Raven, nevermore".