Aug 312011
 

The wind that tenses in the hollow
And re-weaves what grass I kick,
Goes over my length for pillow,
Weary of crags and dirt.

As I approach a higher place,
Barren and brown, the dust
Wind-blown into my onward face
Fingers my eyes and hurts.

I less and less the height approach
That further and further
Recedes; all that I now closer touch
Is the push of Other.

Why has wind come, why a stranger,
So close and harsh to me,
Who has no wish, no wish, to linger,
Held by what he cannot see.

When over the lapsing hilltop's crest
At last came sudden rest,--
I knew not who I was in the hush
When no gust pressed. 

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