Poughkeepsie Casket. June 29, 1839
EVENING CLOUDS.
Clouds of various and radiant dies!
Floating at eve in the deep blue skies,
May ye tell of your glorious homes of light—
As ye fade away in the dim twilight?
Do ye melt in air? or far away, rest
Curtains of light o'er ocean's breast?
Purple clouds! In the sweet south-west,
Float ye o'er isles of the blest?
Bird-like do ye flit around the departed?
Or the spirit's call bear to all broken-hearted?
Bidding them e'en at this sweet, still time,
Leave a world of guilt, and woe, and crime.
Rose-touched clouds! Is the south your home?
Do you go where the rainbow flowers bloom?
Do ye cast a shade o'er the silver flood,
Or tinge as with light the deep green wood?
Touching the heart at the sunset hour,
With your softened brow and gentle power.
Golden clouds! oh! where do ye fly,
Now moving away so gorgeously?
Canopy-like, o'ershadow ye those
Whose hearts are bowed with early woes?
Or touch'd by a seraph's radiant hand,
Seek ye a home in the 'better land?'
No answer! but like an angel's plume,
Ye hang o'er the world in its deep'ning gloom.
But the star-beam above, bright and clear,
Is a guide to that home where no clouds appear.
But you beautiful ones, seem a holy spell
To hush the heart, where bitter thoughts dwell.
MISS M. MILES.
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