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!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Pain
- The Grass So Little Has To Do
- The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were
- Love—is Anterior To Life
- Without This—there Is Nought