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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 8, Poema 27
XXXVII.
LOST
JOY.
I
have
a
happy
thing
I
do
not
really
see,
Then
I
see
it
move,
It
grows
when
I
go.
Then
it
goes
around
a
rock,
It
is
gone
from
my
eyes,
It
is
bigger
than
I
think,
Now
I
know
it
is
sweet.
I
work
for
small
things,
I
get
big
things.
I
feel
proud,
but
also
tricked.
Why
do
fields
make
choices?
I
do
not
understand.
I
taste
big
things,
I
do
not
like
small
things.
I
thank
my
good
friend.
Wisdom
looks
better
from
far
away,
Not
when
it
is
close.
Life
and
Death
are
big.
Small
things
are
quiet.
A
bug
near
a
light,
Or
a
small
flute
song,
Stay
by
chance,
And
they
show
it.
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