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1830–1886

XXXIV.

Emily Dickinson

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.

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XXXIV. · Emily Dickinson · Poetry Cove