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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XXXIII
XXXV

XXXIV

Superfluous were the sun
  When excellence is dead;
He were superfluous every day,
  For every day is said
That syllable whose faith
  Just saves it from despair,
And whose 'I'll meet you' hesitates
  If love inquire, 'Where?'
Upon his dateless fame
  Our periods may lie,
As stars that drop anonymous
  From an abundant sky.