Richard Hunt

THE GRAY clouds weep on the brown grass;

The sun is bright upon one little hill.

The wind is bleak, alas!—

And the song sparrow still.

A hawk screams from the gray sky,

A frog pipes one small note from the bare marsh.

I saw a sea gull like a ship sail by

And his voice was wild and harsh.

The hillsides are all streaked with little rills,

I saw a patch of ice beneath a ledge;

A snowbird on a bare twig trills,

And a robin in the hedge.

I found a pink moth and his wings were numb,

I found some green buds under the dead grass,

I tried to sing a song, but I was dumb:

The wind is bleak—alas!