Her final summer was it

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!