 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
To a Cloud
Whither, O Cloud! with richest treasures fraught,From some unseen, and distant regions brought;
Whither so swiftly dost thou wing thy way,
And why not o'er this dusty city stay?
The grass is withered, and the flowers are dead,
From our fair gardens all their beauty fled;
And e'en the lofty trees, with foliage dry,
Imploring look as thou art passing by.
We know not why so swift thou passest on,
For, while we gaze, thou from our sight art gone!
Like glorious angel hastening to fulfil,
On pinions swift the great Creator's will.
How small our knowledge of the mighty plan
Controuling nature, since the world began!
Vainly would Science search the hidden cause,
Which wings thy flight, obedient to His laws;
Who fillest all things, and dost all contain,
Who sendeth, or withholds alike the rain.
Perhaps, beyond our own horizon's bound,
More needing thee, more dry and parched the ground;
And, with more earnest prayers, more anxious eyes,
Men turn their gaze unto the cloudless skies.
O'er the proud city thou wilt not remain,
Where dwell the sons of pleasure, and of gain;
But, where the toiling husbandman doth stand,
And mourning views his crops, his parched land,
Thou hastenest on; and drop'st thy fulness down,
And dost his toil, and prayers with plenty crown.
Poem No. 813; c. 1 September 1871
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