What shakes the eye but the invisible? Running from God’s the longest race of all. A bird kept haunting me when I was young– The phoebe’s slow retreating from its song, Not could I put that sound out of my mind, The sleepy sound of leaves in a light wind.
Rising or falling’s all one discipline! The line of my horizon’s growing thin! Which is the way? I cry to the dread black, The shifting shade, the cinders at my back. Which is the way? I ask, and turn to go, As a man turns to face on-coming snow.