Thou hast the secret of the fiery dew,
Variety and number infinite
Are vestured in thy wavy flakes of white,—
Of distance and of space thou hast the clue.
Aloof from vapory clouds that fume and spue,
Lifting thyself victorious in fight
Into the far repose of zonëd light,
Thou strivest to attain nirvâna-blue.
Mottled, or plumed, or ribbed, or ripple-barred,
Encamped upon the unfenced fields of space,
Unsullied are thy tents cool-washed in air;
And when morn's bugle blows, or sky's new-starred,
Thy cohorts wait day's coming, parting face,
Like flocks of rosy angels drifting there.