Beclouded.

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 some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Beclouded.' by Emily Dickinson

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy