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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 7, Poema 17
XVII.
TRIUMPH.
Triumph
can
be
of
many
kinds.
There
is
triumph
in
the
room
When
that
old
king,
Death,
By
faith
is
beaten.
There
is
triumph
of
the
fine
mind
When
truth,
hurt
long,
Moves
calm
to
her
top,
Her
God
her
only
crowd.
A
triumph
when
temptation's
gift
Is
slowly
given
back,
One
eye
on
the
heaven
left
And
one
on
the
rack.
Harder
triumph,
by
himself
Known,
who
can
pass
Free
from
that
bare
bar,
God's
face!
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