As they sat in the crimson west at night,
Wherefore they gathered around the sun,
And brightened although his race was run;
When, perhaps, the breezes of night might strew
Their fragile folds into mist and dew?
The clouds replied, “Though we should be driven
Away from our rest, we shall still be in heaven.”
M. A. Browne.
When gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few;