THE GENTIAN WEAVES HER FRINGES

by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

      HE 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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