Of all the Sounds despatched
abroad –
There′s not a charge to me
Like that old measure
in the Boughs
That phraseless Melody –
The Wind does – working
like a Hand
Whose fingers brush ↑ comb ↓ the Sky –
Then quiver down – with
Tufts of Tune –
Permitted men – ↑ Gods ↓ and me –

 

Inheritance it is – to Us –
Beyond the Art to Earn –
Beyond the trait to take
away –

 

￤

 

By Robber – since the Gain
Is gotten, not with fingers –
And inner than the Bone –
Hid golden – for the whole
of Days –
And even in the Urn –
I cannot vouch the merry
Dust
Do not arise and play –
In some odd fashion
of it′s own –
Some quainter Holiday –

 

When Winds go round
and round, in Bands –
And thrum opon the Door –
And Birds take places –

 

￤

 

Overhead –
To bear them Orchestra –

I crave him grace – of
Summer Boughs –
If such an Outcast be –
He never heard that
fleshless Chant
Rise solemn, in the Tree –
As if some Caravan of
sound
On Deserts, in the Sky
Had broken Ran<d>⠿k⠿ –
Then knit – and passed –  ↑ swept ↓
In Seamless Company –