Clouds

THE dew is gleaming in the grass,
The morning hours are seven ;
And I am fain to watch you pass,
Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

Ye stray and gather, part and fold ;
The wind alone can tame you ;
I dream of what in time of old
The poets loved to name you.

They called you sheep, the sky your sward ;
A field, without a reaper ;
They called the shining sun your lord,
The shepherd wind your keeper.

Your sweetest poets I will deem
The men of old for moulding,
In simple beauty, such a dream,
And I could lie beholding,

Where daisies in the meadow toss,
The wind from morn till even
For ever shepherd you across
The shining field of heaven.