Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 28
Chapter 103 of 146 · 1 min read
AT LENGTH.
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 dullness, The busy darling lay, So busy was she, finishing, So leisurely were we!
