Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/17

 Many autumns, many springs Travell'd he with wandering wings. Many summers, many winters— I can't tell half his adventures.

At length he came back, and with him a she, And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. They built them a nest in the topmost bough, And young ones they had, and were happy enow. But soon came a woodman, in leathern guise, His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. He'd an ax in his hand, not a word he spoke, But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke, At length be brought down the poor raven's own oak. His young ones were kill'd: for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart.

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever— And they floated it down on the course of the river.