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...MUJER by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS AN EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF by JAMES BEATTIE BAVARIAN GENTIANS by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE DIVINA COMMEDIA (INTRODUCTORY POEMS): 1 by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ROBINSON CRUSOE by MOTHER GOOSE SONG, FR. THE TWO GENTELEM OF VERONA by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |