large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb_9
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
XLVIII. FRINGED GENTIAN. God made a little gentian; It tried to be a rose And failed, and all the summer laughed. But just before the snows There came a purple creature That ravished all the hill; And summer hid her forehead, And mockery was still. The frosts were her condition; The Tyrian would not come Until the North evoked it. "Creator! shall I bloom?" FORTY EIGHT FRINGED GENTEN GOD MADE A LITTLE GENJON IT TRIED TO BE A ROSE AND FAILED AND ALL THE SUMMER LEFT BUT JUST BEFORE THE SNOWS THERE CAME A PURPLE CREATURE THAT RAVISHED ALL THE HILL AND SUMMER HID HER FOREHEAD AND MOCKERY WAS STILL THE FROSTS WERE HER CONDITION THE TYRIAN WOULD NOT COME UNTIL THE NORTH EVOKED IT CREATOR SHALL I BLOOM
. The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone, -- A courteous, yet harrowing grace, As guest who would be gone. And thus, without a wing, Or service of a keel, Our summer made her light escape Into the beautiful. XLVI. 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. XLVII. SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES. The gentian weaves her fringes, 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. It was a short procession, -- The bobolink was there, An aged bee addressed us, And then we knelt in prayer. We trust that she was willing, -- 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! ATURE SPENDING WITH HERSELF SEQUESTERED AFTERNOON THE DUSK DREW EARLIER IN THE MORNING FOREIGN SHONE A COURTEOUS YET HARROWING GRACE AS GUEST WHO WOULD BE GONE AND THUS WITHOUT A WING OR SERVICE OF A KEEL OUR SUMMER MADE HER LIGHT ESCAPE INTO THE BEAUTIFUL FORTY SIX 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 FORTY SEVEN SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES THE GENSION WEAVES HER FRINGES THE MAPLES 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 IT WAS A SHORT PROCESSION THE BEAUBOLINCK WAS THERE AN AGED BEE ADDRESSED US AND THEN WE KNELT IN PRAYER WE TRUST THAT SHE WAS WILLING 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
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