Verse > Anthologies > Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. > The Little Book of Modern Verse
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Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948).  The Little Book of Modern Verse.  1917.
 
100. The Cloud
 
By Josephine Preston Peabody
 
 
THE ISLANDS called me far away,
  The valleys called me home.
The rivers with a silver voice
  Drew on my heart to come.
 
The paths reached tendrils to my hair        5
  From every vine and tree.
There was no refuge anywhere
  Until I came to thee.
 
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.
 
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.
 
Would she begone? She melts away,
  A heavenly joyous thing.
Yet day will find the mountain white,
  White-folded with her wing.        20
 
As you may see, but half aware
  If it be late or soon,
Soft breathing on the day time air,
  The fair forgotten Moon.
 
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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