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XXVIII.

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!