Poem A Day

Her final Summer was it --

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

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 --

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Poem A Day

One poem today. Another tomorrow.

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