How bleak and cold the air is now -- The Sun has never left his bed: He has a thick grey blanket pulled All over his shoulders and head. Big birds that only have one cry, And little birds with perfect songs, Are silent all, and work their wings Much faster than they work their tongues. I'll turn that black-faced nigger, Coal, Into an Indian painted red; And let him dance and fire wild shots Into the chimney overhead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MAY AND DEATH by ROBERT BROWNING RHENISH AUTUMN; TO TOUSSAINT LUCA by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE PSALM 32. BEATI QUORUM REMISSA SUNT by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE A SONG OF THE ROAD by FRED G. BOWLES TO THE HORSE BLACK EAGLE WHICH I RODE AT THE BATTLE ZAMORNA by EMILY JANE BRONTE SICH A NICE MAN TOO!, SELECTION by ALBERT CHEVALIER SONNET: OF THE GRAVE OF SELVAGGIA, ON MONTE DELLA SAMBUCA by CINO DA PISTOIA |