text: " Thus _islanded in tenderness_ what wonder is it if Ixion embraced a cloud? Let not the modern lover of nature entertain such a thought; "Bright Ph[oe]bus" is no minor canon to smile complacently on the matter; he has a jealousy in him and won't let any be in a melting mood with the clouds but himself; he tears aside your curtains and steam-like rags of capricious vapour--"the mouldering sun seeming not far away but burning like a red-hot ball beside you and as if you could reach it plunges through the rushing wind and rolling cloud with headlong fall as if it meant to rise no more dyeing all the air about it with blood