The cloud-cymbals make the music of the thunder; The lightning-maid dances to its measure; While the breeze-devotees sing their prayer. A worship of lunatics, this; God-mad souls seeking peace; Dervishes, whose agony knows no surcease. No many-color-robéd priest is here; No conch-shell's flourish and blare; No frankincense, myrrh, or perfume rare. A worship of passion and powers; A benediction of liquid flowers Poured through a million silver showers. |