Clouds, little clouds, tell me whither are you going to,
Spun by the sun of the shearing of the sea?
"Thither we are bound, where the West Wind is blowing to,
Off on a holiday, merrymakers we."
Clouds, merry clouds, will you wait till I may fly to you,
Share in the frolic of your gay company?
"Nay, for the West Wind bids us say good-bye to you,
Save if your chariot be speedier than he."
Swift are my steeds: at the thunderous career of them
The high, lone silences that cradle you will flee.