Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/186

 1 72 POEMS.

��XXXIV.

O UPERFLUOUS were the sun He were superfluous every day, For every day is said
 * When excellence is dead ;

That syllable whose faith Just saves it from despair,

And whose ' I '11 meet you ' hesitates If love inquire, ' Where ? '

Upon his dateless fame

Our periods may lie, As stars that drop anonymous

From an abundant sky.

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