Etext scanned by Jim Tinsley <jtinsley@pobox.com> — XLVI

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.