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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 Cuffs of Chrysolite!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Because The Bee May Blameless Hum
- Train
- Finding Is The First Act
- Each Life Converges To Some Centre
- It Might Be Lonelier