Emily Dickinson

Would You Like Summer? Taste Of Ours

poem 691

Would you like summer? Taste of ours. Spices? Buy here! Ill! We have berries, for the parching! Weary! Furloughs of down! Perplexed! Estates of violet trouble ne’er looked on! Captive! We bring reprieve of roses! Fainting! Flasks of air! Even for Death, a fairy medicine. But, which is it, sir?

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