When I was six, God was a white man with a big beard riding on a white cloud. That's the image television pumps.
Were I a cloud I'd gather My skirts up in the air, And fly well know whither, And rest I well know where.
Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
How sweet to be a Cloud. Floating in the Blue!
Large, heavy, ragged black clouds hung like crape hammocks beneath the starry cope of the night. You would have said that they were the cobwebs of the firmament.
By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.
Mama, put my guns in the ground, I can't shoot them anymore. That long black cloud is coming down.
My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
On the other side of the handrail, the hallway's gray marble floor looks as if we've climbed a stairway through the clouds.
Clouds symbolize the veils that shroud God.
Sound-- That stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim, And sees the darkness coming as a cloud-- Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
The writer is a mysterious figure, wandering lonely as a cloud, fired by inspiration, or perhaps a cocktail or two.
In the stutter-flashes of light, the clouds look like huge transparent brains filled with bad thoughts.
