| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 100. The Cloud |
| | | By Josephine Preston Peabody |
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| THE ISLANDS called me far away, | |
| The valleys called me home. | |
| The rivers with a silver voice | |
| Drew on my heart to come. | |
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| The paths reached tendrils to my hair | 5 |
| From every vine and tree. | |
| There was no refuge anywhere | |
| Until I came to thee. | |
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| There is a northern cloud I know, | |
| Along a mountain crest; | 10 |
| And as she folds her wings of mist, | |
| So I could make my rest. | |
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| There is no chain to bind her so | |
| Unto that purple height; | |
| And she will shine and wander, slow, | 15 |
| Slow, with a cloud’s delight. | |
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| Would she begone? She melts away, | |
| A heavenly joyous thing. | |
| Yet day will find the mountain white, | |
| White-folded with her wing. | 20 |
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| As you may see, but half aware | |
| If it be late or soon, | |
| Soft breathing on the day time air, | |
| The fair forgotten Moon. | |
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| And though love cannot bind me, Love, | 25 |
| —Ah no!—yet I could stay | |
| Maybe, with wings forever spread, | |
| —Forever, and a day. | |
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