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‹ AUTUMN. • THE HEMLOCK. ›
September 12, 2007 in Nature, Poems | No comments
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.
Tags: cloud, clouds, Nature, sky, snow
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