I

Winds that cavern heaven and the clouds And canyon with cerulean blue,-- Great rifts down which the stormy sunlight crowds Like some bright seraph, who, Mailed in intensity of silver mail, Flashes his splendor over hill and vale,-- Now tramp, tremendous, the loud forest through: Or now, like mighty runners in a race, That swing, long pace to pace, Sweep round the hills, fresh as, at dawn’s first start, They swept, dew-dripping, from The crystal-crimson ruby of her heart, Shouting the dim world dumb. And with their passage the gray and green Of the earth’s washed clean; And the cleansing breath of their might is wings And warm aroma we know as Spring’s, And sap and strength to her bourgeonings.