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Home  »  The Complete Poems  »  CXXVII

Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.

Part One: Life

CXXVII

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!