by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
THE gentian weaves her fringes,
The maple's loom is red.
My departing blossoms
Obiate 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!
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