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.