THE CLOUD

by: Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

      AM a cloud in the heaven's height,
      The stars are lit for my delight,
      Tireless and changeful, swift and free,
      I cast my shadow on hill and sea--
      But why do the pines on the mountain's crest
      Call to me always, "Rest, rest?"
       
      I throw my mantle over the moon
      And I blind the sun on his throne at noon,
      Nothing can tame me, nothing can bind,
      I am a child of the heartless wind--
      But oh the pines on the mountain's crest
      Whispering always, "Rest, rest."

"The Cloud" is reprinted from Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1915. Ed. William Stanley Braithwaite. New York: Gomme & Marshall, 1915.

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