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Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

Part Three: Nature 46. 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.