How wanton is the cloud when it sings:
"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"
And
"The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl."
How proud when it shouts:
"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."
What calm is in this:
"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."
What consciousness of power in:
"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 million-coloured bow."