Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/108

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XXVII.

INDIAN SUMMER.

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look. These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June, — A blue and gold mistake. Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief, Till ranks of seed their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf!