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403 The Winters are so short— I'm hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod— Myself—for scarcely settled— The Phoebes have begun— And then—it's time to strike my Tent— And open House—again— It's mostly, interruptions— My Summer—is despoiled— Because there was a Winter—once— And al the Cattle—starved— And so there was a Deluge— And swept the World away— But Ararat's a Legend—now— And no one credits Noah—
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:50 PM | Viewed: 8480 times
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Emily Dickinson
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