She hideth Her the last —
And is the first, to rise —
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes —

She doth Her Purple Work —
And putteth Her away
In low Apartments in the Sod –
As worthily as We.

To imitate her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep — of the Bee —

Analysis, meaning and summary of Emily Dickinson's poem She hideth Her the last —

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