A GOLDEN cloud slept for her pleasure All night on the gaunt hill's breast; Light-heart to her play-ground of azure, How early she sped from the nest. But the soft moist trace of her sleeping Lay in the folds of the hill. He pondered; his tears are creeping Down to the desert still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD SQUIRE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H (2) by CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL by FRANCIS BRET HARTE AFTERWARDS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: COUNT RINALDO RINALDI by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON MY NANNIE'S AWA (1) by ROBERT BURNS A CHILD'S EVENING HYMN by GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE |