The Wind, Emily Dickinson

Ciao everyone:)

Here is an Emily Dickinson poem... (which means you know it'll be awesome!)

I found this one as I was on a search for a poem to read between the movements of a composition for music theory class. It fit perfectly!

The flower in the picture smelled amazing, by the way. Very sweet. Found that on the way into class on the day the song was due! It was a very good day:)

 

III. NATURE.

XXIV.

THE WIND.

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.

Ciao for now<3

-TheRedLady-