321 <br /> <br />Of all the Sounds despatched abroad, <br />There's not a Charge to me <br />Like that old measure in the Boughs— <br />That phraseless Melody— <br />The Wind does—working like a Hand, <br />Whose fingers Comb the Sky— <br />Then quiver down—with tufts of Tune— <br />Permitted Gods, and me— <br /> <br />Inheritance, it is, to us— <br />Beyond the Art to Earn— <br />Beyond the trait to take away <br />By Robber, since the Gain <br />Is gotten not of fingers— <br />And inner than the Bone— <br />Hid golden, for the whole of Days, <br />And even in the Urn, <br />I cannot vouch the merry Dust <br />Do not arise and play <br />In some odd fashion of its own, <br />Some quainter Holiday, <br />When Winds go round and round in Bands— <br />And thrum upon the door, <br />And Birds take places, overhead, <br />To bear them Orchestra. <br /> <br />I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs, <br />If such an Outcast be— <br />Who never heard that fleshless Chant— <br />Rise—solemn—on the Tree, <br />As if some Caravan of Sound <br />Off Deserts, in the Sky, <br />Had parted Rank, <br />Then knit, and swept— <br />In Seamless Company—<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-all-the-sounds-despatched-abroad/
