Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 45
Chapter 87 of 146 · 1 min read
As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy.
A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, spending with herself Sequestered afternoon.
The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone, — A courteous, yet harrowing grace, As guest who would be gone.
And thus, without a wing, Or service of a keel, Our summer made her light escape Into the beautiful.
XLVI.
It can't be summer, — that got through; It 's early yet for spring; There 's that long town of white to cross Before the blackbirds sing.
It can't be dying, — it's too rouge, — The dead shall go in white. So sunset shuts my question down With clasps of chrysolite.
