The sky is gray as gray may be, 
There is no bird upon the bough, 
There is no leaf on vine or tree.

In the Neponset marshes now 
Willow-stems, rosy in the wind, 
Shiver with hidden sense of snow.

So too 't is winter in my mind, 
No light-winged fancy comes and stays: 
A season churlish and unkind.

Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days, 
The black ink crusts upon the pen-- 
Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays 
And golden orioles come again!