They rush along, the daughters of the wind,
Grey-eyed, strong-limbed, their dust-brown hair swirled back.
The children of the great warm west are they.
One, high among the white cloud domes that hang
So lazy in the sky, stirs them to life.
Another skims across the grass that bends
In silver waves beneath her scarce-felt tread.
Then, darting up, past twinkling maple leaves,
Bows down the tall elm's crown.
But onward, ever onward still they rush,
And meeting in the wood, sigh through the pines
And pass and leave behind in drowsy heat,
A breathless calm, close-wrappings like a shroud.
