that, there, the sun itself is not golden or Summer 

 amber or bronze, but violet-blue ? Clouds. 



I remember it was complained once of 

 something I wrote ... in effect, that cloud 

 was the visible breathing, the suspended breath 

 of earth . . . that the simile was as inept as 

 it was untrue. None who knows how cloud 

 is formed will dispute the truth in similitude : 

 as to disillusion, can that be 'unpoetic' which 

 is so strange and beautiful a thing ? The 

 breath of a little child born in the chill of 

 dawn, the breath of old age fading into the 

 soon untroubled surface of the mirror held 

 against silent lips, the breath of the shepherd 

 on the hills, of the seamen on dark nights 

 under frost-blue stars, the breath of cows on 

 the morning pastures, of the stag panting by 

 the tarn, the breath of woods, of waters, of 

 straths, of the plains, of the brows of hills, the 

 breath of the grass, the breathing of the 

 tremulous reed and the shaken leaf . . . are 

 not these the continual vapour of life ; and 

 what is cloud but the continual breath of our 

 most deep and ancient friend, the brown earth, 

 our cradle, our home, and our haven ? 



If any reader wish to feel the invisible 

 making of the cloud that shall afterward rise 

 on white wings or stream like a banner from 

 mountain-bastions, let him stand on the slopes 



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