Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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!

1. A Poor Torn Heart, a Tattered Heart
2. Delight Becomes Pictorial
3. A Thought Went up My Mind To-day
4. Too Much
5. The Show

Katharine Tynan Indian Summer ("This is the sign!")

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