Of all the Sounds despatched abroad
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 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 fashion of it’s own—
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands—
And thrum open 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—