The Cloud

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

And she dances about the sun —

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley.