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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 3, Poema 24
XXIV.
THE
WIND.
Of
all
the
sounds
sent
abroad,
None
touch
me
like
That
old
tune
in
the
trees,
A
wordless
melody
The
wind
makes,
like
a
hand
Brushing
the
sky,
Then
coming
down
with
notes
For
gods
and
me.
When
winds
circle
around,
And
play
on
the
door,
And
birds
take
their
places,
To
make
an
orchestra,
I
wish
him
grace,
of
summer
boughs,
If
such
an
outcast
be,
He
never
heard
that
tuneless
chant
Rise
solemn
in
the
tree,
As
if
a
sound
caravan
In
the
sky's
desert,
Had
broken
rank,
Then
passed
In
seamless
company.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B1 Inglés | Cuentana