Читать книгу The Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 249

Table of Contents

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.