They scour upon the open, and mass along the wood,
The burliest invaders that ever man withstood.
With swoop and whirl and scurry, these riders of the drift
Will mount and wheel and column, and pass into the lift.
All night upon the marshes you hear their tread go by,
And all night long the streamers are dancing on the sky.
Their light in Malyn's chamber is pale upon the floor,
And Malyn of the mountains is theirs for evermore.
She fancies them a people in saffron and in green,