Long after summer is gone, its memory lingers like a spell — something both familiar and slightly unreal, an old-fashioned miracle drawn from fairy tales. Dickinson reaches for Cinderella’s bays, Little John’s Lincoln green, and Bluebeard’s galleries, as if the season’s recollection belongs to a storybook world. The bees hum with a “fictitious” sound, the blossoms feel like a gorgeous dream, and the sheer plausibility of it all can lift you to the edge of weeping. There’s a bright, aching joy in how vividly it returns, but also the tug of loss. The poem deepens that ache with its final image: memories come back like a half-remembered tune after the orchestra falls silent and the violin is packed away in baize, leaving both ear and heaven numb. The mood is rapt and bittersweet — the way a perfect summer haunts you long after the air turns cold.
Like Some Old fashioned Miracle — Summary
Like Some Old fashioned Miracle When Summertime is done -- Seems Summer's Recollection And the Affairs of June
As infinite Tradition As Cinderella's Bays -- Or Little John -- of Lincoln Green -- Or Blue Beard's Galleries --
Her Bees have a fictitious Hum -- Her Blossoms, like a Dream -- Elate us -- till we almost weep -- So plausible -- they seem --
Her Memories like Strains -- Review -- When Orchestra is dumb -- The Violin in Baize replaced -- And Ear -- and Heaven -- numb --