POEMS.
213
XXVIII.
AT LENGTH.
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!
