Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

As Summer into Autumn slips
And yet we sooner say
"The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest
We turn the sun away,

And almost count it an Affront
The presence to concede
Of one however lovely, not
The one that we have loved —

So we evade the charge of Years
On one attempting shy
The Circumvention of the Shaft
Of Life's Declivity. 

1. There Is a Shame of Nobleness
2. Till the End
3. Two Swimmers Wrestled on the Spar
4. Unto My Books So Good to Turn
5. Returning

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