Above to sail in—all the dome of sky!
My soul shot with them in their breezy race
O’er star and gloom; but I had yet to fly,
As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot
And strange, I knew—the sunbeam knew it not,—
Wildest of all the savage glens that lie
In far sierras, hiding their deep springs,
And traversed but by storms, or sounding eagles’ wings.
XIX.
Ay, and I met the storm there! I had gain’d