Still not a poem, only a crude draft needed to be made true

I believe the meaning conveyed in the draft below can be made into a good poem. But I'm tired right now. Anyone who's interested in making poem improves it please.

Clouds rolling over the dark heavens,

And the hills stand still to see,

What the Nature bestow its subjects:

White rains poured beads into the boats.

Oh, jealous gust sprung from nowhere,

To scatter so fantasy a scene!

Look down from the tower into the lake,

Where, you may find the waters as the skies.