INDIAN SUMMERBy Emily DickinsonThese 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 onThe old, old sophistries of June, —A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,Almost thy plausibilityInduces my belief,Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,And softly through the altered airHurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,Oh, last communion in the haze,Permit a child to join,Thy sacred emblems to partake,Thy consecrated bread to break,Taste thine immortal wine!

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