The Wind. By Emily Dickinson

    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.