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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XV
XVII

The Wind

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.