962
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—
Emily Dickinson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/midsummer-was-it-when-they-died/
