Emily Dickinson’s speaker jokes that winters are so brief it’s hardly worth sending the birds south and sealing herself up like a seed in a pod. Barely settled in, the phoebes start singing, and she has to break camp and throw open the house again. This constant back-and-forth makes summer feel ruined—a season spoiled by interruptions. Then the poem takes a darker turn: she remembers a past winter so harsh the cattle starved, and an ancient flood that cleansed the world. But now, Mount Ararat is just a story, and no one believes Noah. The mood is wry and weary, as if the speaker can’t enjoy the present because past disasters loom large, and even the old comforts of myth have faded. It’s a restless meditation on how memory and disbelief can shadow the simplest seasonal rhythms.
The Winters are so short — Summary
The Winters are so short -- I'm hardly justified In sending all the Birds away -- And moving into Pod --
Myself -- for scarcely settled -- The Phoebes have begun -- And then -- it's time to strike my Tent -- And open House -- again --
It's mostly, interruptions -- My Summer -- is despoiled -- Because there was a Winter -- once -- And al the Cattle -- starved --
And so there was a Deluge -- And swept the World away -- But Ararat's a Legend -- now -- And no one credits Noah --