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.