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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 325 of 446 · Third Series: Life

Poem 44

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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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