Midsummer, was it, when They died —
A full, and perfect time —
The Summer closed upon itself
In Consummated Bloom —
The Corn, her furthest kernel filled
Before the coming Flail —
When These — leaned unto Perfectness —
Through Haze of Burial —
Midsummer, was it, when They died —
A full, and perfect time —
The Summer closed upon itself
In Consummated Bloom —
The Corn, her furthest kernel filled
Before the coming Flail —
When These — leaned unto Perfectness —
Through Haze of Burial —
Do you have any comments, criticism, paraphrasis or analysis of this poem that you feel would assist other visitors in understanding the meaning or the theme of this poem by Emily Dickinson better? If accepted, your analysis will be added to this page of American Poems. Together we can build a wealth of information, but it will take some discipline and determination.