From The Wind, by Emily Dickinson
Of all the sounds dispatched 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.
It's howlin' like a banshee out there ... what a night.
No comments:
Post a Comment