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Poem by Charles Tennyson Turner
METHOUGHT, as I beheld the rookery pass Homeward at dusk upon the rising wind, How every heart in that close-flying mass Was well befriended by the Almighty mind: He marks each sable wing that soars or drops, He sees them forth at morning to their fare, He sets them floating on his evening air, He sends them home to rest on the tree-tops. And when through umbered leaves the night-winds pour, With lusty impulse rocking all the grove, The stress is measured by an eye of love: No root is burst, though all the branches roar; And in the morning, cheerly as before, The dark clan talks, the social instincts move.
Charles Tennyson Turner
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