Emily Dickinson

Her Final Summer Was It,

Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought A further force of life Developed from within,– When Death lit all the shortness up, And made the hurry plain. We wondered at our blindness,– When nothing was to see But her Carrara guide-post,– At our stupidity When, duller than our dulness, The busy darling lay, So busy was she, finishing, So leisurely were we!

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