Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
\nThere’s not a charge to me
\nLike that old measure in the boughs,
\nThat phraseless melody<\/p>\n
The wind does, working like a hand
\nWhose fingers brush the sky,
\nThen quiver down, with tufts of tune
\nPermitted gods and me.<\/p>\n
When winds go round and round in bands,
\nAnd thrum upon the door,
\nAnd birds take places overhead,
\nTo bear them orchestra,<\/p>\n
I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
\nIf such an outcast be,
\nHe never heard that fleshless chant
\nRise solemn in the tree,<\/p>\n
As if some caravan of sound
\nOn deserts, in the sky,
\nHad broken rank,
\nThen knit, and passed
\nIn seamless company.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"