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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Emily Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was an American poet. more…

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"Her final summer was it, by Emily Dickinson" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 18 Jan. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/11695>.

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