into the beautiful

Every year at the end of summer, I think of this poem. It’s one of my favorites.

Into the beautiful, by Emily Dickinson

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 that would be gone.

And thus, without a wing,
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.

 

 

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