XXIV
The Wind
Of all the sounds despatched abroad,There’s not a charge to meLike that old measure in the boughs,That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a handWhose fingers brush the sky,Then quiver down, with tufts of tunePermitted 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 chantRise solemn in the tree,
As if some caravan of soundOn deserts, in the sky,Had broken rank,Then knit, and passedIn seamless company.