The Winds.
By Madison Julius Cawein
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 their 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 ary room
Preparing, with large laughter and loud song,
For the white moon and stars to wander through.