A Raven thought its brood safe after a storm abated. No so, as a neighbor came by in the sun and stole the eggs. So, Ravens can’t really predict events.
You never know when tragedy will strike.
A Raven, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed,
And on her wicker-work high mounted
Her chickens prematurely counted
(A fault philosophers might blame,
If quite excepted from the same),
Enjoyed at case the genial day.
“Twas April, as the bumpkins say,
The Legislature called it May;
But suddenly a wind as high
As ever swept a winter sky
Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And filled her with a thousand fears,
Lest the rude blast should snap the bough:,
And spread her golden hopes below;
But just at eve the blowing weather
And all her fears were hushed together.
“And now,” quoth poor unthinking Ralph,
“‘Tis over, and the brood is safe.”
(For ravens, though as birds of omen
They teach both conjurers and old women
To tell us what is to befall,
Can’t prophecy themselves at all.)
The morning came, when neighbour Hodge,
Who long had marked her airy lodge, ·
And destined all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,
Climbed like a squirrel to his dray,
And bore the worthless prize away.
‘Tis Providence alone secures,
In every change, both mine and yours.
Safety consists not in escape
From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man that’s strangled by a hair.
Fate steals along with silent tread,
Found oftenest in what least we dread;
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow.