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 comb 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 the 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.
