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.