The Winds

To me the winds that die and start, And strive in wars that never cease, Are dearer than the level peace That lies unstirred at summer's heart.

More dear to me the shadowed world, Where, with report of tempest rife, The air intensifies with life, Than quiet fields of summer's gold.

I am the winds' admitted friend: I share those ancient mysteries They whisper to the trembling trees Or roar along the heavens' end.

And when my spirit listless stands With folded wings that do not live, Their own assuageless wings they give To lift her from the stirless lands.

Within the place unmanifest Where central Truth is immanent, Lies there a vast, entire content Of sound and movement one-in rest?

I Know not this: yet in my heart I feel that where all truths concur, The shrine is peaceless with the stir Of winds that enter and depart.