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.