The Poetry Corner

To The Clouds.

By John Clare

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.