Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

Her Final Summer Was It, - Poem by Emily Dickinson

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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Read poems about / on: summer, death, life



Poem Submitted: Monday, May 14, 2001



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