The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed, at one time wholly obscuring her, at another, suffering her to burst forth in full splendor and shed her light on all the objects around; anon, driving over her again, with increased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness. – Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers

When I do not walk in the clouds I walk as though I were lost. – Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943, translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin

I cannot get that beautiful afternoon out of my head, above me where I lay the grass was silhouetted against the blue of the heavens, small clouds were rushing past as the wind drove them on an endless journey. – Julia Lee-Booker, letter to Pat McSwiney, 1940 July 24