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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XLV

 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.