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"!

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!

Poet: Emily Dickinson
Poem: 157. Musicians wrestle everywhere
Volume: Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
Year: Published/Written in 1955
Poem of the Day: Jan 13 2002

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