rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


When for a while it cleared last night I went out and there where the mulberry tree's foliage lately blocked the night sky I saw Orion and, within seconds it seemed, three swift meteors streaking before him. It was serendipity, as ten more minutes of watching were not rewarded by so much as a single additional meteor.

And the rain we all expected might come by today now will not come at all. There was clarity to the air here and haze above the valley, and the sunset was red, but there were no clouds and will probably be none for days. I'm wanting rain again and there it isn't. It barely seems like November, except for those early and late hours when the few yellowed leaves remaining on the remaining oaks catch the sun's low light and transmute it to gold. Then I think more of hot tea than of ice cream. Yes, rain would be nice.

Long Sunday Verse

The Cloud

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 
  From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
  In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
  The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast, 
  As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
  And whiten the green plains under; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
  And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
  And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 
  While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 
  Lightning my pilot sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder, 
  It struggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion 
  This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the Genii that move 
  In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills and the crags and the hills, 
  Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dreams under mountain or stream 
  The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 
  Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine Sunrise with his meteor eyes, 
  And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
  When the morning star shines dead: 
As on the jag of a mountain crag 
  Which an earthquake rocks and swings 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 
  In the light of its golden wings. 
And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 
  Its ardours of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
  From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 
  As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden 
  Whom mortals call the Moon 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 
  By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And whenever the beat of her unseen feet, 
  Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 
  The stars peep behind her and peer. 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee 
  Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,— 
  Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
  Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, 
  And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The Volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, 
  When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape 
  Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; 
  The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 
  With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 
  Is the millioned-coloured bow; 
The Sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, 
  While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 
  And the nursling of the Sky: 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 
  I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 
  The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 
  Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,— 
  And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
  I arise, and unbuild it again.


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