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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Bound — a trouble –
And lives can bear it!
Limit — how deep a bleeding go!
So — many — drops — of vital scarlet –
Deal with the soul
As with Algebra!

Tell it the Ages — to a cypher –
And it will ache — contented — on –
Sing — at its pain — as any Workman –
Notching the fall of the Even Sun!

When we stand on the tops of Things –
And like the Trees, look down –
The smoke all cleared away from it –
And Mirrors on the scene –

Just laying light — no soul will wink
Except it have the flaw –
The Sound ones, like the Hills — shall stand –
No Lighting, scares away –

The Perfect, nowhere be afraid –
They bear their dauntless Heads,
Where others, dare not go at Noon,
Protected by their deeds –

The Stars dare shine occasionally
Upon a spotted World –
And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,
As if an Axle, held –

You love me — you are sure –
I shall not fear mistake –
I shall not cheated wake –
Some grinning morn –
To find the Sunrise left –
And Orchards — unbereft –
And Dollie — gone!

I need not start — you’re sure –
That night will never be –
When frightened — home to Thee I run –
To find the windows dark –
And no more Dollie — mark –
Quite none?

Be sure you’re sure — you know –
I’ll bear it better now –
If you’ll just tell me so –
Than when — a little dull Balm grown –
Over this pain of mine –
You sting — again!

She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand –
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it –
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet –
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street –

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers –
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy — immortal face
Of whom we’re whispering here?