Of all the sounds despatched abroad

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
men - 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 with 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 fashion 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 -
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
swept
passed -
In Seamless Company -