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. Fringed Gentian
2. The Snow
3. The Blue Jay
4. The Only Ghost I Ever Saw
5. There Is a Shame of Nobleness

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