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Poem	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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