Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

Part One: Life 127. The bone that has no marrow

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!