Cite
 
by EmilyDickinson
XV
XVII

The Wind

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.