The Cloud

THE CLOUD

by george s. burleigh

Slowly to float, a golden-skirted cloud,

            Through the blue depth of Infinite Repose

            In circling wreathe whose every folding glows          

With heavenly dyes, high o’er the jarring crowd

Of Earth, though earth-born, soaring—yet not proud

            Of that high beauty God alone bestows,

But borne in meek obedience—be it mine,

Serenely wafted by the Breath Divine!

            If them there wandered any thirsting one

Faint in the desert, him would I relieve

            With shade and shower; if in the o’er-hot sun

Any sweet bud hung drooping—forced to grieve,

            How would I weep till melted into dew

            On its shrunk petals, they their bloom renew.