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, like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
There's not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
The wind does, like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
Dickinson - Three - Complete
