The Wind-tapped Like A Tired Man
Emily Dickinson
436 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, as He passed Let go a music—as of tunes Blown tremulous in Glass— He visited—still flitting— Then like a timid Man Again, He tapped—’twas flurriedly— And I became alone—
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