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 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PALABRAS CARINOSAS (SPANISH AIR) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS' (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY by HENRY VAN DYKE FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI by SAMUEL BISHOP |