O clouds, ye boisterous flock of birds,
Where fly ye at such stormy pace,
That scarce your shadows can be seen,
Clasping the mend in dim embrace?
And that my spirit fathoms not
Wherefore ye to the mountains hie,
Nor what doth speed you in its train
To foreign climes that yonder lie.
O, it into a cloud, as ye,
Might be transformed my ponderings,
And soar unto the ends of earth
Upon their dusky raven wings!
On Cheskian hills amid their flight,
They would perforce awhile descend,
And with a rainbow-radiant smile
E'en 'mid their tears a greeting send.