Beclouded
2020-03-26 本文已影响0人
简韵书香
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.
by Emily Dickinson
