Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 27
Chapter 25 of 146 · 1 min read
INDIAN SUMMER.
These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June, — A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!
XXVIII.
AUTUMN.
The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
XXIX.
BECLOUDED.
The sky is low, the clouds are mean, A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day How some one treated him; Nature, like us, is sometimes caught Without her diadem.
