Thursday, December 4, 2014


     There’s light, but there’s no color in the dawn:
     The trees are shades of grey, so is the lawn,
     As if the scene with charcoal had been drawn—
     A sickly sort of day, so pale and wan,
     A monotone inducing one to yawn,
     A transient state that shortly will be gone,
     As melancholy as a dying swan.