XVIII.

The rolling clouds!--they have the whole blue space Above to sail in--all the dome of sky! My soul shot with them in their breezy race O’er star and gloom; but I had yet to fly, As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot And strange, I knew--the sunbeam knew it not,-- Wildest of all the savage glens that lie In far sierras, hiding their deep springs, And traversed but by storms, or sounding eagles’ wings.