Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/35

 Those are his Dead who, wrapped in grisly shrouds, Now ride phantasmal on the rushing clouds, Souls of departed chiefs whose livid forms He sees careering on the reinless storms, Wild, spectral huntsmen who tumultuously, With loud halloo and shrilly echoing cry, Follow the furious chase, with the whole pack Of shadowy hounds fierce yelping in the track Of wolves and bears as shadowy as the hosts Who lead once more as unsubstantial ghosts Their lives of old as restlessly they fly Across the wildernesses of the sky. When the wild hunt is done, shall they not rest Their heads upon some swan-white maiden's breast, And quaff their honeyed mead with godlike zest In golden-gated Halls whence they may see The earth and marvellous secrets of the Sea Whereon the clouds will lie with grey wings furled,