Bird and Cloud

Lord, if that cloud still grows and swells,

To reach the Sun at last-

What a fine nipple she will have

On the top of her white breast!

And does this Blackbird, singing here,

Up on my Sycamore bough,

Make that his richest, Summer’s yarn,

To last the season through;

Or is he blind to Cloud and Sun,

And sings but from content-

Because his body feels no pain,

And his mind has no complaint?