  T hey never seem to hurry,—no, Even for the crowd. They dip, and coo, and move as slow, All so soft and proud! You can see the wavy specks Of bubble-color on their necks; —Little, little Cloud. Cloud that goes, the very way All the Bubbles do: Blue and green, and green and gray, Gold and rosy, too. And they talk as Bubbles could If they only ever would Talk and call and coo! —Till you try to catch one so, Just to make it stay While the colors turn. But Oh, Then they fly away!— All at once, two, three, four, five— Like a snowstorm all alive,— Gray and white, and gray! |
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