XXVIII
At Length
Her final summer was it,And yet we guessed it not;If tenderer industriousnessPervaded her, we thought
A further force of lifeDeveloped from within,—When Death lit all the shortness up,And made the hurry plain.
We wondered at our blindness,—When nothing was to seeBut 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!