Her final Summer was it —
by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
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 —
More poems by Emily Dickinson
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Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves— …
-
There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance — …
-
A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil …
-
There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat …
All poems by Emily Dickinson →