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C.N. Douglas, comp.  Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical.  1917.
  Those playful fancies of the mighty sky.
  The clouds, the only birds that never sleep.
Victor Hugo.    
        Those clouds are angels’ robes.—That fiery west
Is paved with smiling faces.
Charles Kingsley.    
                They are fair resting-places
For the dear weary dead on their way up to heaven.
Joaquin Miller.    
        Clouds on clouds, in volumes driven,
Curtain round the vault of heaven.
Thomas Love Peacock.    
        When clouds appear like rocks and towers,
The earth’s refreshed by frequent showers.
Old Weather Rhyme.    
        If woolly fleeces spread the heavenly way,
No rain, be sure disturbs the summer’s day.
Old Weather Rhyme.    
        The hooded clouds, like friars,
  Tell their beads in drops of rain.
        Yonder cloud
That rises upward always higher,
A looming bastion fringed with fire.
                        That look’d
As though an angel, in his upward flight,
Had left his mantle floating in mid-air.
Joanna Baillie.    
        The clouds consign their treasure to the fields,
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,
In large effusion o’er a freshen’d world.
  When scattered clouds are resting on the bosoms of hills, it seems as if one might climb into the heavenly region, earth being so intermixed with sky, and gradually transformed into it.
        We often praise the evening clouds,
  And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
  Who tinged these clouds with gold.
        Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance,
Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air,
Thy battlements hang o’er the slopes and the forests,
Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether,
Looming sublimely aloft and afar.
Bayard Taylor.    
                        Now a cloud,
Massive and black, strides up; the angry gleam
Of the red lightning cleaves the frowning folds.
                        Wafted up,
The stealing cloud with soft grey blinds the sky
And in its vapory mantle onward steps
The summer shower.
        Ye clouds, that are the ornament of heaven,
Who give to it its gayest shadowings
And its most awful glories; ye who roll
In the dark tempest, or at dewy evening
Bow low in tenderest beauty;—ye are to us
A volume full of wisdom.
        A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
*        *        *        *        *
Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow;
Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chance to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
John Wilson.    
        Cloud-walls of the morning’s gray
Faced with amber column,
Crowned with crimson cupola
From a sunset solemn.
May-mists, for the casements, fetch,
Pale and glimmering,
With a sunbeam hid in each,
And a smell of spring.
Mrs. Browning.    
        O, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend’s fancy.
        Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish;
A vapour, sometimes, like a bear or lion,
A tower’d citadel, a pendant rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory,
With trees upon’t, that nod unto the world,
And mock our eyes with air.
        I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
      From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
      In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
      The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
      As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
      And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
      And laugh as I pass in thunder.
                  I loved the Clouds.
Fire-fringed at dawn, or red with twilight bloom,
Or stretched above, like isles of leaden gloom
In heaven’s vast deep, or drawn in belts of gray,
Or dark blue walls along the base of day;
Or snow-drifts luminous at highest noon,
Ragged and black in tempests, veined with lightning,
And when the moon was brightening,
Impearled and purpled by the changeful moon.
R. H. Stoddard.    

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