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

It 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—