Bittersweet

As Summer into Autumn slips
by Emily Dickinson

As Summer into Autumn slips
And yet we sooner say
"The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest
We turn the sun away,



And almost count it an Affront
The presence to concede
Of one however lovely, not
The one that we have loved --


So we evade the charge of Years
On one attempting shy
The Circumvention of the Shaft
Of Life's Declivity.

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I love Emily Dickinson when I feel melancholy. It is like she is forming my own poor thoughts and making them shimmer with a beauty and clarity that they don't have on their own.

Like I said last year: http://thegreatestgiftsofgod.blogspot.com/2007/11/autumn-thoughts.html
and I can say it all again. Every single autumn . . .
And this year there is the added sadness of missing this achingly beautiful season at home.
How many more autumns till I am home again?