I

A quiet moves upon me.
It is not drifting snow.
Like snow it chills my mouth,
And brings my breathing low.
It moves like sand against me,
Cleaning, covering.
It is not sand; it is
Not anything.

II

Do lions fall down worn
And beautiful, to lie
In death that is but scorn
Of life, quite proud to die?

There is someone who would
Protest for fear her head
Be denied that lasting mood
Becoming to the dead.

III

They must walk ever where the wind
Curves like grain about their feet,
Never to stoop to pluck the wind
To learn if it be gold and sweet,
Never to have a stalk of wind
To carry in their hands like wheat.