I used to dream, long, long ago,
That the clouds were marvelous white elephants
Journeying in droves to a far-off sacred city
That always made the sunset with the reflection of its altar-fires.

But now I am grown old and wise
And disillusioned,
And I know that the clouds are toy-animals for children,
And are made of cotton-batting,
Or at best are woven from a sort of mercerized wool,
And are always cut out
With patterns of tissue-paper.