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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Wind
The Woodpecker

XVII

A dew sufficed itself
  And satisfied a leaf,
And felt, 'how vast a destiny!
  How trivial is life!'
The sun went out to work,
  The day went out to play,
But not again that dew was seen
  By physiognomy.
Whether by day abducted,
  Or emptied by the sun
Into the sea, in passing,
  Eternally unknown.