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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 7, Poema 28
XXVIII.
AT
LENGTH.
Her
last
summer
it
was,
And
yet
we
did
not
know;
If
more
busy
work
Filled
her,
we
thought
A
further
force
of
life
Grew
from
within,
—
When
Death
lit
all
the
shortness
up,
And
made
the
rush
clear.
We
wondered
at
our
blindness,
—
When
nothing
was
to
see
But
her
white
guide-post,
—
At
our
dullness,
When,
slower
than
our
slow,
The
busy
dear
lay,
So
busy
was
she,
finishing,
So
slow
were
we!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — A1 Inglés | Cuentana