Emily Dickinson wonders if these deaths happened at midsummer, when the season was at its fullest. The phrase “full, and perfect time” sets the tone: this is not a tragedy but a kind of consummation. Summer closes in on itself in a riot of bloom, and the corn ears have filled out, every kernel complete, just before the harvest flail would come. Death arrives not as a rupture but as a final ripening. The dead seem to lean into their own perfection, softened by a “Haze of Burial.” There’s a quiet, almost hushed sense of rightness here. The speaker isn’t mourning; she’s contemplating a moment when life and death align, when the end comes so naturally it feels like the world pausing at its most abundant point. The mood is one of serene wonder, as if death itself becomes a kind of bloom.
Midsummer, was it, when They died -- — Summary
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 --