John Constable, Extensive Landscape with Clouds
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.


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Return to the Emily Dickinson library , or . . . Read the next poem; Bless God, he went as soldiers

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