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XXVIII. At Length

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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!

Dickinson: The Complete Works

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