Dickinson's wisdom cuts against our usual way of bracing against loss—she's not asking us to *accept* that things end, but to recognize that their very transience is what gives them flavor, what makes them worth our attention in the first place. We tend to pursue permanence, to wish for encores and replays, but she suggests the sweetness lies precisely in the unrepeatable moment. When you sit with an old friend you haven't seen in years, you find yourself noticing things you might ordinarily miss—the particular way she laughs, the specific slant of afternoon light—because some part of you knows this particular gathering will dissolve. That acute attention, born from scarcity, is what makes the afternoon sweet.