A poem

Musicians wrestle everywhere-
All day- among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife-
And- waking- long before the morn-
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that "New Life"!

It is not the Bird- it has no rest-
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 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!

-Emily Dickenson