Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
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- 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 and me.
- 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,
- 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 passed
- In seamless company.
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