Pigeons Out Walking

They never seem to hurry,--no,
Even for the crowd.
They dip, and coo, and move as slow,
All so soft and proud!
You can see the wavy specks
Of bubble-color on their necks;
--Little, little Cloud.

Cloud that goes, the very way
All the Bubbles do:
Blue and green, and green and gray,
Gold and rosy, too.
And they talk as Bubbles could
If they only ever would
Talk and call and coo!

--Till you try to catch one so,
Just to make it stay
While the colors turn. But Oh,
Then they fly away!--
All at once, two, three, four, five--
Like a snowstorm all alive,--
Gray and white, and gray!