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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!