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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 12, Poema 18
XVIII.
THE
SPIRIT.
It's
whiter
than
a
pipe,
It's
dimmer
than
lace;
No
shape
has
it,
like
fog,
When
you
get
close.
No
voice
shows
it's
here,
Or
hints
it's
there;
A
spirit,
how
does
it
speak?
What
customs
does
it
have?
This
endless
exaggeration
Each
of
us
shall
be;
It's
a
drama,
if
(maybe)
It's
not
a
tragedy!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B1 Inglés | Cuentana