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Her final summer was it

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Written by Emily Dickinson

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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!


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