![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5lsABkiQQP9-Z0K9huAf3fstoni4HDGJdJJLtqgliQW5ZjDnYWOUT5D2gEln_G-pQw2pzsH-8zGtDEBv84_5p9W5pRvRyxde8vKLGFahnt1V-PGcysVcYEmkqltq1lkKgMP2VNzhfrih/s280/sai-wind_of_dawn.jpg)
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.
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