Indian Summer


Indian Summer
Kabir Bakie, Clouds Blue Sky, July 2004
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 can not 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!


facebook share button twitter share button reddit share button share on pinterest pinterest

Add Indian Summer to your library.

Return to the Emily Dickinson library , or . . . Read the next poem; I've Known a Heaven like a Tent

© 2022