O Painted Clouds ! Sweet Beauties Of The Sky, How Have I View'D Your Motion And Your Rest, When Like Fleet Hunters Ye Have Left Mine Eye, In Your Thin Gauze Of Woolly-Fleecing Drest; Or In Your Threaten'D Thunder'S Grave Black Vest, Like Black Deep Waters Slowly Moving By, Awfully Striking The Spectator'S Breast With Your Creator'S Dread Sublimity, As Admiration Mutely Views Your Storms. And I Do Love To See You Idly Lie, Painted By Heav'N As Various As Your Forms, Pausing Upon The Eastern Mountain High, As Morn Awakes With Spring'S Wood-Harmony; And Sweeter Still, When In Your Slumbers Sooth You Hang The Western Arch O'Er Day'S Proud Eye: Still As The Even-Pool, Uncurv'D And Smooth, My Gazing Soul Has Look'D Most Placidly; And Higher Still Devoutly Wish'D To Strain, To Wipe Your Shrouds And Sky'S Blue Blinders By, With All The Warmness Of A Moon-Struck Brain,-- To Catch A Glimpse Of Him Who Bids You Reign, And View The Dwelling Of All Majesty.