Musicians Wrestle Everywhere
Emily Dickinson
157 Musicians wrestle everywhere— All day—among the crowded air I hear the silver strife— And—walking—long before the morn— Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that “New Life”! If is not Bird—it has no nest— Nor “Band”—in brass and scarlet—drest— Nor Tamborin—nor Man— It is not Hymn from pulpit read— The “Morning Stars” the Treble led On Time’s first Afternoon! Some—say—it is “the Spheres”—at play! Some say that bright Majority Of vanished Dames—and Men! Some—think it service in the place Where we—with late—celestial face— Please God—shall Ascertain!
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