Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XLIV

 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!