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1830–1886

XLV.

Emily Dickinson

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy.

A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, 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.

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XLV. · Emily Dickinson · Poetry Cove