The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
poem by Emily Dickinson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
