Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.