Crow I stand, black
on this tor (stack
of rugged books)
my perch of fame
my name gives pause
now noised abroad
not least by me
(I have clear cause)
winged words I wield;
scooping deft air,
pluck easy meat
from this opportune day
my steelbright eye
that pierces clouds of doubt
now sees my future sustenance laid out:
I think it’s a dead cert.
(Ted Hughes)
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