Summer’s Obsequies. By Emily Dickinson

    The gentian weaves her fringes,
    The maple’s loom is red.
    My departing blossoms
    Obviate parade.

    A brief, but patient illness,
    An hour to prepare;
    And one, below this morning,
    Is where the angels are.

    It was a short procession, —
    The bobolink was there,
    An aged bee addressed us,
    And then we knelt in prayer.

    We trust that she was willing, —
    We ask that we may be.
    Summer, sister, seraph,
    Let us go with thee!

    In the name of the bee
    And of the butterfly
    And of the breeze, amen!