Emily Dickinson — A Dew Sufficed Itself

A dew sufficed itself    And satisfied a leaf, And felt, 'how vast a destiny!    How trivial is life!' The sun went out to work,    The day went out to play, But not again that dew was seen    By physiognomy. Whether by day abducted,    Or emptied by the sun Into the sea, in passing,    Eternally unknown.


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