The Cloud by Shelley I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. From the seas and the streams, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid in their noon day dreams. From my wings are shaken the do's that wake in the sweet buds everyone. When rocked to rest on their mother's breast as she dances about the sun, I wield the flail of the lashing hail and whiten the green plains under, and then again I dissolve it in rain and laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow in the mountains below and their great plants grow in a gasp, and all the night is my pillow white. While I sleep in the arms of the blast sublime, on the towers of my sky-eyed hours, lightning my pilot sits in a cavern under as feathered the thunder. It struggles and howls that fits over earth and ocean with gentle motion. This pilot is guiding me. Lured by the love of the Jinai that move in the depths of the purple sea, over the hills and the cracks and the hills, over the lakes and the plains. Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, the spirit he loves remains. And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, wills to he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise with his meteor eyes and his burning plumes outspread, leaps on the back of my sailing rack. When the morning star shines dead as on the jag of a morning crag, which in earthquake rocks and swings, an eagle-alit one moment may sit in the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath its orders of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of Eve may fall from the depths of heaven above. With wings folded, I rest, unmind-airy nest, as still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden, who mortals call the moon, glides glimmering over my fleece-like floor, by the midnight breeze of strewn. And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, which only the angels hear, may have broken the woof of my tense thin roof. The stars peep behind her and peer, and I laugh to see them whirl and flee, like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-billed tent, till the column rivers, lakes and seas, like strips of the fallen sky through me on high, are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, and the moons with a girdle of pearl. The volcanoes are dim, and the stars are real and swim. When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl, from Cape to Cape, with a bridge-like shape over a torrent sea, sunbeam proof I hang like a roof. The mountains its columns be, the triumphal arc through which I march with hurricane, fire and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, is the million-colored bow, the spear fire above its soft colors wove, while the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, and the nurse-ling of the sky. I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores, I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain went with never a stain, the pavilion of heaven is bare, and the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, build up the blue dull of air. I silently laugh at my own zenithaff, and out of the caverns of rain like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. .