Emily Dickinson

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.