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1830–1886

XLIV.

Emily Dickinson

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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XLIV. · Emily Dickinson · Poetry Cove