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Poems by Emily Dickinson: XLIV

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!
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