THE LITTLE CLOUD.

All day the rain has patter'd down,
In dense dark folds, clouds hang around,
The humid air is dead and still,
Thick vapors veil the distant hill.

But now, a little crimson cloud
Beams from an opening in the shroud,
Which, like a dusky pall, o'erspreads
The azure vault above our heads.

Our fancy, while we gaze, takes wings
And flits around earth's brighter things,
Then whispers in our list'ning ears,
"This earth is not all sighs and tears."

This cloud is like the robin's song,
Whose notes were hushed all winter long,
But comes to usher in the hours,
Whose genial warmth revives the flowers.

Or like the south wind's gentle voice,
Bidding all nature's works rejoice,
Teaching the little birds, to sing
A serenade to blooming spring.

Like budding flowers where thorns once grew,
And beauty bursting into view