Читать книгу The Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 81

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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.