Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The Wind

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 the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.

When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon 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 rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.

1. A Shady Friend for Torrid Days
2. Portraits Are to Daily Faces
3. The Goal
4. Sight
5. The Thought Beneath So Slight a Film

Frances Kemble The Wind ("Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully")

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