THE WINDS

Those hewers of the clouds, the Winds,— that lair

At the four compass-points,— are out to-night;

I hear their sandals trample on the height,

I hear their voices trumpet through the air:

Builders of storm, God's workmen, now they bear,

Up the steep stair of sky, on backs of might,

Huge tempest bulks, while,— sweat that blinds heir sight,—

The rain is shaken from tumultuous hair:

Now, sweepers of the firmament, they broom,

Like gathered dust, the rolling mists along

Heaven's floors of sapphire; all the beautiful blue

Of skyey corridor and celestial room

Preparing, with large laughter and loud song,

For the white moon and stars to wander through.