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.