When winds are clean and hills are cold,
And there's no dust upon the sky,
Each tip and stem pricks straight and thin,
No bird flies high;
Each rock and tree is sharp and clear,
And far-off things seem standing near;
No sound, no motion, low or high,
Save the wide winds that flow from out the long blue reaches of the sky.

Winter it is, but still no snow;
Cold it is, but oh! so bright!
All the world seems strong and good,
The heart so light!
There is no scent of sappy things,
Yet the sun glints and the blood sings.
Nothing to crawl, nothing to fly,
Save the strong winds that sweep and wash the sharp blue sapphire of the sky.