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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 11, Poema 16
XVI.
THE
WIND.
It's
like
the
light,
—
A
joy
without
shape
It's
like
the
bee,
—
A
song
without
date.
It's
like
the
woods,
Private
like
breeze,
Without
words,
yet
it
moves
The
tallest
trees.
It's
like
the
morning,
—
Best
when
it's
done,
—
The
clocks
chime
noon.
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