Sunset Clouds

Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves, Torn from the forest of the storm, Sweep westward like enormous leaves O'er field and farm. And in the west, on burning skies, Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed, And deep their drifted thunder lies With splendor flushed. The black turns gray, the gray turns gold; And, seaed in deeps of radiant rose, Summits of fire, manifold They now repose. What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal! That have their source in loveliness, Through which the doubts I often feel Grow less and less. Through which I see that other night, That cloud called Death, transformed of Love To flame, and pointing with its light To life above.