The Wind by Emily Dickinson — Read

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.