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.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Death Sets A Thing Of Signigicant
- All These My Banners Be
- For Every Bird A Nest
- A South Wind&Mdash;Has A Pathos
- I Measure Every Grief I Meet (561)