High-hollow wastelands, plains, and wind-whipped heights,
That howl and whisper in the raging nights
Of airy voices born of forms unseen
That pierce the soul like silver Highland skeans.
Above the din stands Storm-crow, Lord of Light
Bending elements, contending terrible might,
He disputes his nemesis, Faerie-queen.
And dancing through the midnight dark demesnes
Heedless of the tempest’s wrath, bedight
With stars and robed in mists, come storm-sprites, bright.
Through wind and rain and fire of the gale,
They come through icy cataracts of hail,
These rhythmic-flickering dancers blithe take flight,
And siren-like, beckon beyond the veil.