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Poem	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 --
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