THE WIND, WHENCE BLOWING
From what land where the winds meet
Art thou come, O Wind, O ruthless feet,
O cloak of the most High of Lords,
O shattering thrust of untamed swords?
From what land where the winds tell
Of ancient Powers sin-swept to Hell,
Of meagre men by Christ's craft
Borne to the Throne where Satan laughed?
From what land where a Hill stands,
The stars uplift upon his hands;
A Hill stands, and round his knees
There is concourse of all seas?
"I from the sheer crags of the skies,
To thy hair and hollow eyes!"