The Wind Tapped Like A Tired Man, - Poem by Emily Dickinson
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.
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