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Light here is soft, soft soft, far away and fading fast. 

Last days of summer

 

                                              THE CLOUD

 

AM a cloud in the heaven's height,

The stars are lit for my delight,

Tireless and changeful, swift and free,

I cast my shadow on hill and sea--

But why do the pines on the mountain's crest

Call to me always, "Rest, rest?"

 

I throw my mantle over the moon

And I blind the sun on his throne at noon,

Nothing can tame me, nothing can bind,

I am a child of the heartless wind--

But oh the pines on the mountain's crest

Whispering always, "Rest, rest."

 

- Sara Teasdale