A Dew Sufficed Itself By Emily Elizabeth 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.