They are clothed with the wind of despair.
GARLAND: Lo, the live waters run to greet the day:
Even so I laughed to see the soaring light;
My life was poised like yonder curving wave
To break in such bright revel of keen spray.
ARLO: I counted not the years that took their flight,
Gold-crowned and singing; every hour I stood,
As one enchanted in an April wood,
In some new paradise of scent and flowers.
I counted not the countless, careless hours,