University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Poems by Emily Dickinson

Dickinson, Emily (1830-1886)

collapse section 
[section]
  
[My nosegays are for captives]
expand section 
I. LIFE.
expand section 
II. LOVE.
collapse section 
III. NATURE.
 1. 
I. MOTHER NATURE.
 2. 
II. OUT OF THE MORNING.
 3. 
[III. At half-past three a single bird]
 4. 
IV. DAY'S PARLOR.
 5. 
V. THE SUN'S WOOING.
 6. 
VI. THE ROBIN.
 7. 
VII. THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY.
 8. 
VIII. THE BLUEBIRD.
 9. 
IX. APRIL.
 10. 
X. THE SLEEPING FLOWERS.
 11. 
XI. MY ROSE.
 12. 
XII. THE ORIOLE'S SECRET.
 13. 
XIII. THE ORIOLE.
 14. 
XIV. IN SHADOW.
 15. 
XV. THE HUMMING-BIRD.
 16. 
XVI. SECRETS.
 17. 
[XVII. Who robbed the woods]
 18. 
XVIII. TWO VOYAGERS.
 19. 
XIX. BY THE SEA.
 20. 
XX. OLD-FASHIONED.
 21. 
XXI. A TEMPEST.
 22. 
XXII. THE SEA.
 23. 
XXIII. IN THE GARDEN.
 24. 
XXIV. THE SNAKE.
 25. 
XXV. THE MUSHROOM.
 26. 
XXVI. THE STORM.
 27. 
XXVII. THE SPIDER.
 28. 
[XXVIII. I know a place where summer strives]
 29. 
[XXIX. The one that could repeat the summer day]
 30. 
XXX. THE WIND'S VISIT.
 31. 
[XXXI. Nature rarer uses yellow]
 32. 
XXXII. GOSSIP.
 33. 
XXXIII. SIMPLICITY.
 34. 
XXXIV. STORM.
 35. 
XXXV. THE RAT.
 36. 
[XXXVI. Frequently the woods are pink]
 37. 
XXXVII. A THUNDER-STORM.
 38. 
XXXVIII. WITH FLOWERS.
 39. 
XXXIX. SUNSET.
 40. 
[XL. She sweeps with many-colored brooms]
 41. 
[XLI. Like mighty footlights burned the red]
 42. 
XLII. PROBLEMS.
 43. 
XLIII. THE JUGGLER OF DAY.
 44. 
XLIV. MY CRICKET.
 45. 
[XLV. As imperceptibly as grief]
 46. 
[XLVI. It can't be summer,—that got through]
 47. 
XLVII. SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES.
 48. 
XLVIII. FRINGED GENTIAN.
 49. 
XLIX. NOVEMBER.
 50. 
L. THE SNOW.
 51. 
LI THE BLUE JAY.
expand section 
IV. TIME AND ETERNITY.

collapse section Collapse All | Expand All expand section
previous section Poems by Emily Dickinson
next section
169

[XLVI. It can't be summer,—that got through]

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.
previous section Poems by Emily Dickinson
next section