Clubby ! thou surely art, I ween,
A Puss of most majestic mien,
—So stately all thy paces!
With such a philosophic air
Thou seek'st thy professorial chair,
—And so demure thy face is!

And as thou sit'st, thine eye seems fraught
With such intensity of thought
—That could we read it, knowledge
Would seem to breathe in every mew,
And learning yet undreamt by you
—Who dwell in Hall or College.

Oh! when in solemn taciturnity
Thy brain seems wandering through eternity,
—What happiness were mine

Clouds that drift so far and free
I'd ask to bear my message,
but their whirling shapes accept no charge;
wandering, halting, I long in vain
Those who part all meet once more;
you alone send no word of return
Since you went away,
my shining mirror darkens with neglect
Thoughts of you are like the flowing river —
when will they ever end?

Clouds spout upon her
Their waters amain
In ruthless disdain,--
Her who but lately
Had shivered with pain
As at touch of dishonour
If there had lit on her
So coldly, so straightly
Such arrows of rain.

She who to shelter
Her delicate head
Would quicken and quicken
Each tentative tread
If drops chanced to pelt her
That summertime spills
In dust-paven rills
When thunder-clouds thicken
And birds close their bills.

Would that I lay there
And she were housed here!
Or better, together

The clouds grow clear, the pine-wood glooms and stills
With brown reflections in the silent bay,
And far beyond the pale blue-misted hills
The rose and purple evening dreams away
The thrush, the veery, from mysterious dales
Rings his last round; and outward like a sea
The shining, shadowy heart of heaven unveils
The starry legend of eternity.
The day's long troubles lose their sting and pass.
Peaceful the world, and peaceful grows my heart
The gossip cricket from the friendly grass
Talks of old joys and takes the dreamer's part.

Cloodburst an' soarin' mune
And 'twixt the twa a taed
That loupit oot upon me
As doon the loan I gaed.

Noo I gang white an' lanely
But hoo I'm wishin', faith,
And clood aine mair cam' owre me
Wi' Jock the byreman's braith.

A cloud possessed the hollow field,
The gathering battle's smoky shield.
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,
And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,
And from the heights the thunder pealed.
Then at the brief command of Lee
Moved out that matchless infantry,
With Pickett leading grandly down,
To rush against the roaring crown
Of those dread heights of destiny.

Far heard above the angry guns
A cry across the tumult runs,--
The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods
And Chickamauga's solitudes,

A CLOUD of dust on the long, white road,
And the teams go creeping on
Inch by inch with the weary load;
And by the power of the green-hide goad
The distant goal is won.

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,
And necks to the yokes bent low,
The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;
And the shining tires might almost rust
While the spokes are turning slow.

With face half-hid by a broad-brimmed hat,
That shades from the heat's white waves,
And shouldered whip, with its green-hide plait,

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
— A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on
— O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!
— Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
— Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
— To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
— Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven,

Cloud-capped peaks fill the eyes
In the spring sunshine.
Their names are written in beautiful characters
And posted in order of merit.
How I hate this silk dress
That conceals a poet.
I lift my head and read their names
In powerless envy.

Cloud and water, lonely, desolate:
where now is the flute's voice coming from?
Sighing, sighing—full of autumn thoughts;
unawares come feelings of separation.
Chilly moonlight on water by the tower;
west wind in the city on the river.
What need now to hear the Wu-ch'i Song
with its bitter resentment at southern journeys?