Full of Speech

The wind is full of coruscating speech,
It is an uncompounded thing, comprised
Of many millions of angels;
Their silver pinions are like scrolls
Of music tightly-rolled.

Men are cities whose streets are walked by gods,
Mouthpiece or portcullis,
The wind is merchant there;
The heart is galaxied, the tongue
A pen of ink indelible;
Unseen, white steeds are travelling in the mind,
With fiery ministers in the saddle.