Where his sure feet pass
The crowds are strangely thinned;
They are the furrowed grass
And he is the wind.

Many go with the thought
Of their footfall's little beat,
Wearing their own lives caught
Like shackles on their feet.

But his mind is not led
Along a footstepped way;
There is motive in his tread
That was not shaped from clay.

Thresholds may make him small,
But the wind is in his feet—
Dominant, impersonal,
As he walks upon a street.