Emily Dickinson Poem

It can’t be 🌞

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It can’t be “Summer”!
That—got through!
It’s early—yet—for “Spring”!
There’s that long town of White—to cross—
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can’t be “Dying”!
It’s too Rouge—
The Dead shall go in White—
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon 🌼

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