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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 6, Poema 13
XIII.
THE
ORIOLE.
One
of
the
ones
Midas
touched,
Who
did
not
touch
us
all,
Was
that
happy
bird,
The
oriole.
So
drunk,
he
says
no
With
a
smile;
So
bright,
we
think
He
is
a
light.
A
talker,
a
trickster,
A
lover,
a
thief,
—
Sometimes
a
song,
A
joy
in
chief;
The
bird
of
orchards,
He
tricks
as
he
charms
Of
all
the
scent
For
his
needs.
The
bright
bird,
The
star
of
birds,
Leaves
like
a
show
Of
songs
and
bards.
I
never
thought
Jason
looked
For
any
gold;
But
I
am
a
simple
man,
With
thoughts
of
peace.
But
if
there
were
a
Jason,
Let
me
see
His
lost
thing
On
the
apple-tree.
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