Ii

My brow I bare To the cool, clean air, That blows from the crests of the clouds that roll, Pearl-piled and berged as floes of Northern Seas, Banked gray and thunder-low Big in the heaven’s peace; Clouds, borne from nowhere that we know, With nowhere for their goal; With here and there a silvery glow Of sunlight chasming deeps of sombre snow, Great gulfs that overflow With sky, a sapphire-blue, Or opal, sapphire-kissed, Wide-welled and deep and swiftly rifting through Stratas of streaming mist;-- Each opening like a pool, Serene, cerule, Set round with crag-like clouds ’mid which its eye gleams cool.