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!
