Читать книгу The Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 283

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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!