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. Love's Humility
2. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
3. Desire
4. Power
5. Is Bliss, Then, Such Abyss

Print

1701 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version