For you stand or stray in the futile building, while the
cloud is no mansion for man, and out of reach of his limitations.
The cloud, moreover, controls the sun, not merely by keeping the custody
of his rays, but by becoming the counsellor of his temper. The cloud
veils an angry sun, or, more terribly, lets fly an angry ray, suddenly
bright upon tree and tower, with iron-grey storm for a background. Or
when anger had but threatened, the cloud reveals him, gentle beyond hope.
It makes peace, constantly, just before sunset.
It is in the confidence of the winds, and wears their colours. There is
a heavenly game, on south-west wind days, when the clouds are bowled by a
breeze from behind the evening. They are round and brilliant, and come
leaping up from the horizon for hours. This is a frolic and haphazard
sky.
All unlike this is the sky that has a centre, and stands composed about
it. As the clouds marshalled the earthly mountains, so the clouds in
turn are now ranged. The tops of all the celestial Andes aloft are swept
at once by a single ray, warmed with a single colour.
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