Clouds

Tremblingly low, the clouds came down
Over the hills, And the westerly wind bore them
Like a flock of white sheep.
But southerly winds, stooped low,
In the lowlands, streets of rain; Where the flowers and grasses will be With a wave of the glimmering light between:
The sun casts them up to the azure heights;
Here, there is nothing of death, but their life!

• Lesbia Harford