Yon cloud, 't is bright and beautiful — it floats
Alone in God's horizon —on its edge
The stars seem hung like pearls— it looks as pure
As 't were an angel's shroud— the white cymar
Of Purity just peeping through its folds,
To give a pitying look on this sad world.

Go visit it, and find that all is false;
Its glories are but fog — and its white form
Is plighted to some thunder-gust.—
The rain, the wind, the lightning have their source
In such bright meetings. Gaze not on the clouds,
However beautiful — Gaze at the sky—
The clear, blue, tranquil, fixed, and glorious sky.