Emily Dickinson


The Wind-- tapped like a tired Man-
And like a Host, 'Come in,'
I boldly answered-- entered then
My Residence within

A Rapid-- footless Guest--
To offer whom a Chair
Were as impossible as hand
A Sofa to the Air.

No Bone had He to bind Him-
His Speech was like the Push
Of numerous Humming Birds at once
From a superior Bush-

His Countenance-- a Billow-
His Fingers, if He pass,
Let go a music-- as of tunes
Blown tremulous in Glass-

He visited-- still flitting-
Then, like a timid Man,
Again He tapped--'t was flurriedly--
And I became alone-