Poems (Spofford)/Clouds
For works with similar titles, see Clouds.
CLOUDS.
High in the rare crepusculine ether, Cirrus, and fine, and fading fair, A purpler film leaves all beneath her, And hovering where remoter bounds are bare,Dreams of the vanished light on so serene a height, And shreds her vapor into ragged air.
Flamed she erewhile on some sunset's bosom, Scarlet and piled with fleeciest snow, Crowning the side-sky with ruddy blossom— To suffer so her sanguine ardors go,And hang, with meek surrender abandoning her splendor, Like nothing but the breath of one below?
One long sad cloud that girts the quiet even, With half a rosy reflex broods, In doubt if this be earth or that be heaven, And with wild moods stolen from strange solitudesStill drifts on slumberous tides, and in a hushed heart hides Low tunes and melancholy interludes.
O changing clouds, that drop the great sun's glory, Dimly through gloom to draw your wings, Till over you stars make the spaces hoary, And ancient springs to flood your passing brings—Our lives are vapors, too, we gather like the dew, And fade and float wherever fortune flings.