Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

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.

1. On the Tleakness of My Lot
2. Possession
3. The Moon Is Distant from the Sea
4. The Oriole
5. Triumph

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