Indian Summer

PL

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, —
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief;

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join;

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!

First print Nature XXVII, 27
Johnson 130 | Franklin 122

LINK TO EMILY DICKINSON, BOOKS

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