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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 11, Poema 17
XVII.
ASLEEP.
As
far
from
pity
as
complaint,
As
cold
to
talk
as
stone,
As
numb
to
new
things
As
if
my
work
were
bone.
As
far
from
time
as
history,
As
near
yourself
today
As
children
to
the
rainbow,
Or
sunset's
yellow
play
To
eyes
in
the
grave.
How
still
the
dancer
lies,
While
colors
show,
And
butterflies
fly!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — A1 Inglés | Cuentana