A Poem by Emily Dickinson
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 someone treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
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 someone treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
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