The sky is low, the clouds are mean
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 some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
Y'know, if you log in, you can write something here, or contact authors directly on the site. Create a New User if you don't already have an account.