Shall I compare you to an icy floe
That floats atop a vast, enormous sea?
Upon reflection, the answer is “no”;
There are no penguins here, nor could there be.

They say eight-ninths of icebergs escape
Our eyes. We but glimpse one great piece of ice.
But below you’s another hue and shape.
I learned your different names. Do they suffice?

We sort by what is useful. What brings hail
Or gentle rain to nourish growing crops?
But I can’t help but wonder if words fail
To classify the hidden forms of tops.

Would wordsmiths have devised the same divides
If they could have looked at clouds from both sides?


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