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Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||
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 '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.
The dead shall go in white.
So sunset shuts my question down
With clasps of chrysolite.
Poems by Emily Dickinson | ||