At Length
by Emily 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 dullness,
The busy darling lay,
So busy was she finishing,
So leisurely, were we!
Fourteen Lines 