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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 325 of 446 · Third Series: Life

Poem 44

— ✻ —

The bone that has no marrow;
What ultimate for that?
It is not fit for table,
For beggar, or for cat.

A bone has obligations,
A being has the same;
A marrowless assembly
Is culpabler than shame.

But how shall finished creatures
A function fresh obtain? --
Old Nicodemus' phantom
Confronting us again!

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