The south-wind strengthens to a gale, / Across the moon the clouds fly fast, / The house is smitten as with a flail, / The chimney shudders to the blast.

Were I a cloud I'd gather My skirts up in the air, And fly well know whither, And rest I well know where.

The white saucer like some full moon descends / At last from the clouds of the table above.

I know that if odour were visible, as colour is, I'd see the summer garden in rainbow clouds.

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,/ In the dawn clouds flying,/ How good to go, light into light, and still/ Giving light, dying.

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far we are pursued by nothing else.