Hundreds of times have I seen, hanging about and above the vale
of Rydal, clouds that might have given birth to this Sonnet, which
was thrown off on the impulse of the moment one evening when I was
returning home from the favourite walk of ours, along the Rotha,
THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky
Owe to a troubled element their forms,
Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye
We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms,
And wish the Lord of day his slow decline
Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high?
Behold, already they forget to shine,
Dissolve--and leave, to him who gazed, a sigh.
Not loth to thank each moment for its boon
Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may,
Peace let us seek,--to stedfast things attune
Calm expectations--leaving to the gay
And volatile their love of transient bowers,
The house that cannot pass away be ours.