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.