The sky has dropped its foul, grey hue
Upon this world and me;
And when the wind comes howling through,
It brings no felicity.

The birds have lost their will to sing,
And mourn this darkened hour;
The sun becomes a had-been thing,
Which once had supreme power.

Those clouds that touch the earth are dark
And cover the surfaces of seas;
While ashes billow with each spark
And hound all like swarms of bees.

The world has no more flowers to offer
And there are thorns, thorns in my way;
And, I know, my blooms lie in a coffer,
But my thorns will not wilt away.

4th August