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.

Family lore has it that we are somehow related to Ms. Dickinson. Not sure if that is in any way connected to my feeling for this little piece of poetry today. I do like how she draws this languid feeling from what is normally referred to a ‘invigorating’ and ‘refreshing’. Pretty brilliant, actually.

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