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Midsummer, was it, when They died-
A full, and perfect time-
The Summer closed upon itself
In Consummated Bloom-
The Corn, her furthest kernel filled
Before the coming Flail-
When These-leaned unto Perfectness-
Through Haze of Burial-
Midsummer, Was It, When They Died
Emily Dickinson
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Poem topics: perfect, summer, time, bloom, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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