It will be Summer — eventually.
Ladies — with parasols –
Sauntering Gentlemen — with Canes –
And little Girls — with Dolls –
Will tint the pallid landscape –
As ’twere a bright Bouquet –
Thro’ drifted deep, in Parian –
The Village lies — today –
The Lilacs — bending many a year –
Will sway with purple load –
The Bees — will not despise the tune –
Their Forefathers — have hummed –
The Wild Rose — redden in the Bog –
The Aster — on the Hill
Her everlasting fashion — set –
And Covenant Gentians — frill –
Till Summer folds her miracle –
As Women — do — their Gown –
Of Priests — adjust the Symbols –
When Sacrament — is done –
Emily Dickinson
(Editor’s Note: This poem is shown here as it was written — Emily Dickinson loved her hyphens.)
Get out there and seize the day! Wear that sundress you think you look fat in — screw what everybody thinks, you love it; knead a patch of cool grass with your toes while you eat your supper, find a shady tree in a quiet place and meditate, show your kids how you used to decorate yourself with lightning bug butts — whatever it is, do it. Don’t neglect the scrapbook in your head!
