Poem by Emily Elizabeth 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!

1. This Merit Hath the Worst
2. Contrast
3. The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized
4. In Lands I Never Saw, They Say
5. He Put the Belt around My Life

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