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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.