XVI. The Wind By Emily Dickinson
It’s like the light, —
A fashionless delight
It’s like the bee, —
A dateless melody.
It’s like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.
It’s like the morning, —
Best when it’s done, —
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon.
Summary
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