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 Comb
the Sky –
Then quiver down – with
tufts of Tune –
Permitted 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 –

 

 ¦

 

Who never heard
that fleshless Chant –
Rise – solemn –  on the
Tree,
As if some Caravan
of Sound
Off Deserts, in the
Sky,
Had parted Rank –
Then knit, and swept –
In Seamless Company –