Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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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 its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
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--
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--