Lost for a while, yet pours the varied song.
The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by;
Again he stretches up the clear blue sky.
His form, his motion, undistinguish’d quite,
Save when he wheels direct from shade to light;
E’en then the songster a mere speck become,
Gliding like fancy’s bubbles in a dream,
The gazer sees * * * *
Robert Bloomfield, 1766–1823.