The Clouded Morning
by Jones Very (1813-1880)

The morning comes, and thickening clouds prevail,
      Hanging like curtains all the horizon round,
Or overhead in heavy stillness sail;
      So still is day, it seems like night profound;
Scarce by the city’s din the air is stirred,
      And dull and deadened comes its every sound;
The cock’s shrill, piercing voice subdued is heard,
      By the thick folds of muffling vapors drowned.
Dissolved in mists the hills and trees appear,
      Their outlines lost and blended with the sky;
And well-known objects, that to all are near,
      No longer seem familiar to the eye,
But with fantastic forms they mock the sight,
As when we grope amid the gloom of night.

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