Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||
170
XLVII.
SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES.
The gentian weaves her fringes,
The maple's loom is red.
My departing blossoms
Obviate parade.
The maple's loom is red.
My departing blossoms
Obviate parade.
A brief, but patient illness,
An hour to prepare;
And one, below this morning,
Is where the angels are.
An hour to prepare;
And one, below this morning,
Is where the angels are.
It was a short procession,—
The bobolink was there,
An aged bee addressed us,
And then we knelt in prayer.
The bobolink was there,
An aged bee addressed us,
And then we knelt in prayer.
171
We trust that she was willing,—
We ask that we may be.
Summer, sister, seraph,
Let us go with thee!
We ask that we may be.
Summer, sister, seraph,
Let us go with thee!
In the name of the bee
And of the butterfly
And of the breeze, amen!
And of the butterfly
And of the breeze, amen!
Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||