Clouds

The world is full of clouds, The blue-grey, streaked, spun exquisite, Sailing in nonchalance, As the boughs whisper and call. At times they chant in fading voices; They bring the dusk’s talk and evening soft sighs.

A specter—upon perceiving, To clasp these thoughts in comfort; winds wander low, In vibrant pensiveness with the showering wetness And sunlight, gliding forth as music, Now a backdrop but tomorrow a bright flame! Can light be so? Are the people blurred in rain?— Yet to touch the fire is pleasing well.
Be it mirrored in words or barren forms. Even the orange glow upholds the sky.

Let winds unfold, because clouds come. The world will come become—then rest. Be, be Upon the rushing fields of air. What sings beyond stretches of different thoughts,— Ever undone but true? It is here I dwell for freedom is nearby. Let us succumb to the city’s soft hum, And in succession, thought, become.

Until the sun break brings forth the starkness, Upon those which are full and broad and tuned to energy As they scatter form, so lovely is the passing scene, Across the unending light that play and reverberates.

What passion that rallies—clouds are circus, However scatterings ebb to run, and they feel light; Yet find the beneficence, mold not the sky. Let the glorious tones serve.—Act deep for all concerning this beauty, The world is full of clouds.

• Wallace Stevens