At Length. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

 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!