Читать книгу The Complete Poetry of Emily Dickinson - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 345

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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!