Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

Superfluous were the sun

When excellence is dead;

He were superfluous every day,

For every day is said

That syllable whose faith

Just saves it from despair,

And whose 'I'll meet you' hesitates

If love inquire, 'Where?'

Upon his dateless fame

Our periods may lie,

As stars that drop anonymous

From an abundant sky.