"I"

There where the twisted roots of the mind are hidden,
Far, far below the level of knowledge or thought,
Where, like a vein of rich ore in the dark earth hidden,
The life-shaping things of the mind - of the race - are sought
There it is hidden, the thing that moulds all that I am,
The I within I, the atavistic ancestral man.

And the wind that blows over me here on the crest of the hill
Where no trees are, over the grass and the heather,
Has a different sound, ancient and sad and shrill,
Lonely and wild as the sea; soft as an owlet's feather.
Only the rocks and heather and moor grass growing
Sing at his passing; sing to my secret knowing.

Here I am I, the self which endures, which is formed of my dream
Which neither age nor conditions can change, born of the eternal,
Compounded of Wind song in grass and the shimmering sungleam,
The call of the redshank and cry of the curlew fraternal;
I am mixed with the scent of the myrtle, the drone of the bee
And the warmth of the sunlight; all these are integral to me.

When the pert breasts of a maid no longer excite,
And the rush of the blood of youth is less surely begotten,
When the swaying hips and the smile no longer invite,
When the inessentials are shed and the small things forgotten,
The I that endures will remain. Even then I shall still
Find my soul in the cry of a bird and the wind on the hill.

I dream back to the roots of the race as I hear the lark's song
And the sun warms my breast where I lie in the moor grass and heather
All is natural creation of which I am part, I belong.
There is harmony here - all this beauty in rhythm together
Calls to my inmost soul while reason and knowledge nod;
Here in the wild places is mirrored the beauty of God.

"K"