IN the choir the boys are singing the hymn. The morning light on their lips Moves in silver-moist flashes, in musical trim. Sudden outside the high window, one crow Hangs in the air And lights on a withered oak-tree's top of woe. One bird, one blot, folded and still at the top Of the withered tree!—in the grail Of crystal heaven falls one full black drop. Like a soft full drop of darkness it seems to sway In the tender wine Of our Sabbath, suffusing our sacred day.