The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of
Across a barn or through a
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes
Without her diadem.
The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of
Across a barn or through a
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes
Without her diadem.