To The Clouds
Through the unchanging heaven, as ye have sped, Speed onward still, a strange wild company, Fleet children of the waters! Glorious ye, Whether the sun lift up his shining head, High throned at noontide and established Among the shifting pillars, or we see The sable ghosts of air sleep mournfully Against the sunlight, passionless and dead! Take thus a glory, oh thou higher Sun, From all the cloudy labour of man's hand- Whether the quickening nations rise and run, Or in the market-place we idly stand Casting huge shadows over these thy plains- Even thence, O God, draw thy rich gifts of rains.
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