John Clare

To the Clouds

    O painted clouds! sweet beauties of the sky,
      How have I view’d your motion and your rest
    When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye,
      In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest;
    Or in your threaten’d thunder’s grave black vest,
      Like black deep waters slowly moving by,
    Awfully striking the spectator’s breast
      With your Creator’s dread sublimity,
    As admiration mutely views your storms.
      And I do love to see you idly lie,
    Painted by heav’n as various as your forms,
      Pausing upon the eastern mountain high,
    As morn awakes with spring’s wood-harmony;
      And sweeter still, when in your slumbers sooth
    You hang the western arch o’er day’s proud eye:
      Still as the even-pool, uncurv’d and smooth,
    My gazing soul has look’d most placidly;
      And higher still devoutly wish’d to strain,
    To wipe your shrouds and sky’s blue blinders by,
      With all the warmness of a moon-struck brain,--
    To catch a glimpse of Him who bids you reign,
      And view the dwelling of all majesty.