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 - wor - king[^a1] like a Hand -
Whose fingers comb the Sky -
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune -
Permitted Gods - and me -

[^a1: wor - king | working]

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 -