Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/It can't be summer,—that got through

by Emily Dickinson

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.