Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - second series (1891).djvu/181

 POEMS, 169


 * XLVI.

T 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.