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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 7, Poema 38
XLIV.
MY
CRICKET.
In
summer,
crickets
sing
from
the
grass,
They
are
small
but
have
a
big
song.
We
don't
see
rules
for
them,
Their
song
grows
slowly
and
quietly,
It
makes
us
feel
a
little
lonely.
We
feel
their
old
song
at
noon,
When
August
is
hot
and
slow,
Their
song
gives
us
peace.
No
change
in
the
bright
day,
No
lines
on
the
warm
ground,
But
their
song
makes
nature
special
now.
Summer
went
away
slowly
and
quietly.
It
was
so
gentle,
like
sadness,
That
it
did
not
feel
wrong.
The
evening
came
softly,
Like
nature
resting
alone
In
the
afternoon.
The
night
came
earlier,
And
the
morning
felt
new.
It
was
like
a
polite
guest
Ready
to
leave
soon.
So,
without
wings
or
boats,
Summer
quietly
left
us
For
something
beautiful.
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