THE CLOUD IN THE GARDEN

Oh, where can I find a little white cloud? Tell me, bee in the clover; Do they ever, you think, come down to drink, When the heat of the day is over? I’d tie one fast to the cherry tree With a twist of silver twine; A glad little child I’d surely be If a little white cloud were mine. And every morning I’d pull it down To brush a puff or a wing; I’d hold it fast in my arms awhile Smoothing the feathery thing; I’d feed it dew from a hollyhock And when it had drunk to please With a tug on its string it would be away Riding the gay little breeze. But Oh, if the clouds in the sky should cry “Come back, little brother again!” If their sad little tears should fall down to earth In sorrowing drops of rain; If the silver cloud mother should come, at night, In a fog gown, trailing low, To hunt for a child in our garden place— I think I should let it go!