Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 3 — The Winds

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 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 aëry room Preparing, with large laughter and loud song, For the white moon and stars to wander through.