The Wind’s Visit. By Emily Dickinson

    The wind tapped like a tired man,
    And like a host, “Come in,”
    I boldly answered; entered then
    My residence within

    A rapid, footless guest,
    To offer whom a chair
    Were as impossible as hand
    A sofa to the air.

    No bone had he to bind him,
    His speech was like the push
    Of numerous humming-birds at once
    From a superior bush.

    His countenance a billow,
    His fingers, if he pass,
    Let go a music, as of tunes
    Blown tremulous in glass.

    He visited, still flitting;
    Then, like a timid man,
    Again he tapped — ‘t was flurriedly —
    And I became alone.