Oh, where can I find a little white cloud?
Tell me, bee in the clover;
Do they ever, you think, come down to drink,
When the heat of the day is over?
I’d tie one fast to the cherry tree
A glad little child I’d surely be
If a little white cloud were mine.
And every morning I’d pull it down
To brush a puff or a wing;
I’d hold it fast in my arms awhile
Smoothing the feathery thing;
I’d feed it dew from a hollyhock
And when it had drunk to please
With a tug on its string it would be away
Riding the gay little breeze.
But Oh, if the clouds in the sky should cry
“Come back, little brother again!”
If their sad little tears should fall down to earth
In sorrowing drops of rain;
If the silver cloud mother should come, at night,
In a fog gown, trailing low,
To hunt for a child in our garden place—
I think I should let it go!
