Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

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 tufts of tune—

Permitted Gods—and me—

Inheritance it is to us

Beyond the Art to Earn—

Beyond the trait to take away

By Robber—since the Gain

Is gotten not of fingers—

And inner than the Bone

Hid golden, for the Whole of Days—

And even in the Urn—

I cannot vouch the merry Dust

Do not arise and play,

In some odd Pattern of its own—

Some quainter Holiday—

When Winds go round and round in Bands—

And thrum upon the Door—

And Birds take places – overhead—

To bear them Orchestra—

I crave Him Grace of Summer Boughs—

If such an Outcast be—

Who never heard that fleshless Chant—

Rise solemn on the Tree,

As if some Caravan of Sound—

Off Deserts in the Sky—

Had parted Rank—

Then knit and swept

In Seamless Company –

                                                            F334 (1862)  321

Dickinson reveals an almost mystic sensibility in this powerful tribute to the music of wind. Nothing brings such a “Charge” to her, as if the wind were elemental energy. In an effective simile she personifies Wind as a hand coming the sky as if it were a head of hair. Clouds sometimes form long rows that look a bit like a series of waves. These are classified as undulatu and do inteed give the impression that the sky has been carefully combed and parted. But then the fingers “quiver down,” and here we see them shaking the leaves and creating “tufts of tune” as the trees respond.

            While many poets would follow this imagery, Dickinson pivots and ends the stanza by saying that the ability to hear this music is “Permitted Gods—and me.” It’s a worshipful statement. The gods (and this has a Greek rather than a monotheistic sound) are “permitted” to listen. They lack the right or ability on their own—as does the poet who is also permitted. Clearly the wind wields a power beyond that of gods or poet and it is a holy honor to fully experience it.

The sky, combed by wind
photo: Peter Mann

            Yet even if the sound is “Hid golden” for the “Whole of [our] Days,” it is still our “Inheritance.” We can’t earn it, no matter how diligent or skillful we may be. Consequently, it cannot be taken from us. Dickinson distinguishes here between what can be taken—something “gotten…of fingers,” and what cannot—our inalienable inheritance that is more “inner than the Bone.” Since the bone is pretty “inner,” she must be referring to the soul. The wind animates the soul. Even the ashes of the dead “arise and play” within their urn when the “Winds go round and round in Bands.” The last lines of the long second stanza (all one sentence) introduce an image to balance the earlier one of the wind “working like a Hand.” But while that image was all visual, the second stanza image of the birds to perch  in the trees to “bear [the wind] Orchestra,” is essentially an aural one. The birds serve as accompaniment to the voices of the wind.

            The third stanza begins as a prayer: “I crave Him Grace.” A Christian or other prayer would continue with the hope of forgiveness and salvation. But Dickinson asks for the grace of “Summer Boughs”—windsong through the trees—for the poor”Outcast” who has never appreciated the wind. In her final image she shows the reverse order of the Wind that started high above combing the sky and then dropping down into the trees. This time the wind rises “solemn” up the trees into the sky. The final image is of Arab traders crossing the desert. This “Caravan,” however, is of sound and the desert is up above. As the Caravan makes its way up through the forest it splits and then eventually knits back together and sweeps away, all its separate breezes and murmurings now “In Seamless Company.”