THE 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 think 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, Forever shepherd you across The shining field of heaven. —Archibald Lampman.