The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Variorum Edition, Franklin, 1998
Emily Dickinson Archive
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 - kingworking 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 opon 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 -