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 - wor-
king 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 Pattern
of it's 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 -
	Emily -