English poetry

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Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

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

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Poem Of all the Sounds despatched abroad - Emily Dickinson