← Table of contents
Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series

XLIV.

Reading edition

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!

Explore with AITake your curiosity a little further.

Reading settings