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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 Comb the Sky-
Then quiver down-with tufts of Tune-
Permitted Gods, and me-
Inheritance, it is, to us-
Beyond the Art to Earn-
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers-
And inner than the Bone-
Hid golden, for the whole of Days,
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some odd fashion of its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
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-
Who never heard that fleshless Chant-
Rise-solemn-on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and swept-
In Seamless Company-
Of All The Sounds Despatched Abroad
Emily Dickinson
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Poem topics: away, never, summer, tree, wind, holiday, rise, play, door, fashion, dust, merry, bone, golden, company, sound, measure, melody, thrum, gain, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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