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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 3, Poema 24
XXIV.
THE
WIND.
Of
all
the
sounds
sent
out,
There's
none
like
that
old
tune
in
the
trees,
That
wordless
melody
The
wind
makes,
like
a
hand
Whose
fingers
touch
the
sky,
Then
fall
down,
with
notes
Allowed
to
gods
and
me.
When
winds
go
round
and
round,
And
tap
on
the
door,
And
birds
sit
above,
To
play
orchestra,
I
ask
for
grace,
from
summer
trees,
If
such
an
outsider
be,
He
never
heard
that
silent
song
Rise
in
the
tree,
As
if
some
sound
caravan
In
the
sky,
Had
broken
rank,
Then
joined,
and
passed
In
smooth
company.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — A2 Inglés | Cuentana