Poems, Series 2: XLVI. It can't be summer, -- that got through
XLVI. It can't be summer, -- that got through
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 clasps of chrysolite.