BECLOUDED.
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.
E-Text
Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems
Part Three: Nature 80. The sky is low, the clouds are mean
