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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 6, Poema 39
XLIX.
NOVEMBER.
In
autumn,
poets
sing,
But
some
days
are
plain.
A
little
snow
is
near,
And
mist
is
in
the
air.
Mornings
are
sharp
and
cold,
Eyes
look
serious
and
still.
The
golden
flowers
are
gone,
And
fields
have
no
crops.
The
brook
is
quiet
now,
The
air
is
calm
and
soft;
Magic
fingers
touch
The
eyes
of
little
fairies.
Maybe
a
squirrel
stays,
To
share
my
thoughts.
Please,
Lord,
give
me
a
sunny
mind,
To
feel
your
windy
day!
The
snow
falls
down
softly.
Snow
covers
all
the
trees.
It
fills
the
road
with
white.
It
makes
the
land
look
smooth,
From
the
east
to
the
east.
Snow
reaches
the
fence,
It
covers
the
rails,
And
hides
them
in
white.
It
covers
the
stumps
and
stems,
Where
summer
was
before.
Snow
touches
the
posts
like
a
queen,
Then
it
stops
and
is
quiet.
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