This poem was written when I was in the seventh grade. I was sitting in an English class and looking out the window. The teacher was talking about poetry.
I wrote the poem with a pencil, and I did not revise it. When it was finished I had memorized it.
Until now, it has never been published.
THAT FATEFUL DAY
“Out beyond the window gleams, the sodden grey sky lay.
Over the very world it seems had come the destined day.
Low hung the darkening clouds throughout that fateful day.
Low hung the darkened clouds hurling thunderbolts for play.
Out of the great indistinct came a low rumbling roar,
Covering the ends of the world,
Eternally grasping for more.
But, of all the beauteous chirpings that follows the morning sun,
Only the low echoes remained, as though the day were done.
All but the haughty mortals caught the darkness of that day.
For they considered the majestic carried on with full array.
For they considered the majestic carried on with all their might.
Not heeding the sun’s warning,
Nor the day resembling the night…”