The Kestrel

In a great western wind we climbed the hill     And saw the clouds run up, ride high and sink;     And there were shadows running at our feet     Till it seemed the very earth could not be still,     Nor could our hearts be still, nor could we think     Our hearts could ever be still, our thought less fleet     Than the dizzy clouds, less than the flying wind.     Eastward the valley and the dark steep hill     And other hills and valleys lost behind     In mist and light. The hedges were not yet bare     Though the wind picked at them as he went by.     The woods were fire, a fire that dense or clear     Burned steady, but could not burn up the shadows     Rooted where the trees' roots entangled lie,     In darkness; or a flame burned solitary     In the middle of the highest of brown meadows,     Burned solitary and unconsuming where     A red tree stooped to its black shadow and     The kestrel's shadow hunted the kestrel up the hill.     We climbed, and as we stood (where yet we stand     And of the visioned sun and shadow still drink)     Happiness like a shadow chased our thought     That tossed on free wings up and down the world;     Till by that wild swift-darting shadow caught     Our free spirits their free pinions furled.     Then as the kestrel began once more the heavens to climb     A new-winged spirit rose clear above the hills of time.