Gift from the Empty-Handed

If, splicing the wind, I run

Into the setting-sun-

Swifter than wind, if I pass

Over the grass-

If as a feather I bend

Into the wind,

Float and float down, slide and slide in

Where the wind ribbons thin,

Where the wind is a twirl and a roar

And a shell with no shore,

And is blue and is green and is more . . .

This movement, this light, this ascent

When I'm lifted and bent-

When, whipped by the wind, I would strip

To be one with the whip-

This nothing, this, on the wing,

Thing that I love, I will bring

To you I love, who will know-

Whenever the wind may blow-

Something is yours, wind-driven,

Though nothing is given.