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 – wor–
king 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 of
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 Pattern
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 –

 

                  Emily –