Classic Poem

My window looks upon a world grown gray,
— Where grim trees seem like troubled men in prayer;
Smoke pours from chimneys, telling that the day
— Is drear — that piercing winds have chilled the air.

No songbird trills — only the sparrows wait
— Hunched in their feathers, for the proffered crumb;
It is as if some stern, relentless fate
— Had gripped the earth and left it tired and numb.

Even the far-off whistling of a train
— Sounds weary, dwindles to a ghostly wail;
Does all the world reflect war's gloomy strain,
— Wondering what foes, what evils may assail?

But spring will come — of this there is no doubt,
— With blossoming bough . . . if mankind would implore
The powers that be to put war's curse to rout,
— Could peace not bloom, too, in the world once more?

My window looks upon a world grown gray,
— Where grim trees seem like troubled men in prayer;
Smoke pours from chimneys, telling that the day
— Is drear — that piercing winds have chilled the air.

No songbird trills — only the sparrows wait
— Hunched in their feathers, for the proffered crumb;
It is as if some stern, relentless fate
— Had gripped the earth and left it tired and numb.

Even the far-off whistling of a train
— Sounds weary, dwindles to a ghostly wail;
Does all the world reflect war's gloomy strain,
— Wondering what foes, what evils may assail?

But spring will come — of this there is no doubt,
— With blossoming bough . . . if mankind would implore
The powers that be to put war's curse to rout,
— Could peace not bloom, too, in the world once more?