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.