O the wind blowing round me, the wind
blowing round me, the same wind that
blew when the grey world was green!
The high hills before me, the brown hills before
me, that stand in their places where Death
has not been.
The blue sky over my head is singing, is singing,
is singing, as loudly as I.
For Death was only a seeming, a dreaming,
and Life is as clouds that fade and fly.
The strong hills vanish, as thin clouds vanish,
as I shall vanish, my dream, my pain;
But all my dreams and I the dreamer, clouds
and hills shall sing again.
Then birds of October, hills of October, winds
of October, wrap me round.
Carry me forward, road of October, sped on
the wheels of light and sound.
For the birds are on wings now and I am on
wings now over the white road the dead
men trod.
And there are no dead men, there are no dead
men, but living men only and dead men
are God!