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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=385982" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Of all the Sounds despatched abroad</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">321</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,<br>There's not a Charge to me<br>Like that old measure in the Boughs—<br>That phraseless Melody—<br>The Wind does—working like a Hand,<br>Whose fingers Comb the Sky—<br>Then quiver down—with tufts of Tune—<br>Permitted Gods, and me—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Inheritance, it is, to us—<br>Beyond the Art to Earn—<br>Beyond the trait to take away<br>By Robber, since the Gain<br>Is gotten not of fingers—<br>And inner than the Bone—<br>Hid golden, for the whole of Days,<br>And even in the Urn,<br>I cannot vouch the merry Dust<br>Do not arise and play<br>In some odd fashion of its own,<br>Some quainter Holiday,<br>When Winds go round and round in Bands—<br>And thrum upon the door,<br>And Birds take places, overhead,<br>To bear them Orchestra.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,<br>If such an Outcast be—<br>Who never heard that fleshless Chant—<br>Rise—solemn—on the Tree,<br>As if some Caravan of Sound<br>Off Deserts, in the Sky,<br>Had parted Rank,<br>Then knit, and swept—<br>In Seamless Company—</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Emily+Dickinson">Emily Dickinson</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=385982" data-title="Of all the Sounds despatched abroad de Emily Dickinson" data-description="321 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 tu..."></div> </div> </div>
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