A Dew Sufficed Itself—

by Emily Dickinson

 

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.

Attested to this Day

That awful Tragedy

By Transport’s instability

And Doom’s celerity.