When gathering vapours climb in storm

The steep sierras of delight,

Wings of your hair I love to form

And on its perfume soar from sight.

For in those great black plumes unfurled

The darkest condor of my thought

May stretch his aching sinews taut

And fling his shadow on the world.

When sick of self my moods rebel,

The demon from his secret hell,

The eagle from his cage of brass,

They have been lent such scented wings

Over the wreck of earthly things

In silence with the sun to pass.