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XXX. The Wind's Visit

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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.

Dickinson: The Complete Works

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