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Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.

Part Two: Nature

XXX

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

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.