In the cloud gray mornings
I heard the herons Flying
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
Hoar-frost
Amy Lowell
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Poem topics: cloud, sky, garden, touch, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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