The wind through the hills, through the trees,
Through the window in the black and gleaming night
Is God’s cool, sweet breath. We breathe it in,
Are filled, and are surprised that it whistles on,
As if what came down through the hills and woods
Should be for us alone, to inhale in minute doses
To move us as does a battery a beam.
In fact it floods and gushes, bearing us,
If we will be carried, like a floating house—
Cow on the roof, heads craned from upper windows—
To a turn and a sandy bank.
But being borne like a floating house to a place
We’ve never seen or learned about
Is disturbing to most of us,
Whose faith ends at the threshold of our confinement.
So we breathe in the cool breath of the
Breathe as much as we can hold,
And taste the pine and wisteria and rose,
The honeysuckle, mint, and magnolia,
And feel God’s breath slip slyly past us,
Slowing when we’re too proud to take it in,
Promising more, snow or lilac with the season,
More sweetness than we can swallow,
So much, so constantly, that we detest
Our poor power to contain it.