Poemsby Emily Dickinson

Summer's Obsequies

 The gentian weaves her fringes, The maple's loom is red. My departing blossoms Obviate parade. 
 A brief, but patient illness, An hour to prepare; And one, below this morning, Is where the angels are. 
 It was a short procession, - The bobolink was there, An aged bee addressed us, And then we knelt in prayer. 
 We trust that she was willing, - We ask that we may be. Summer, sister, seraph, Let us go with thee! 
 In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!