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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 7, Poema 50
L.
THE
SNOW.
It
sifts
from
gray
sieves,
It
covers
the
wood,
It
fills
the
road's
wrinkles
With
white
wool.
It
makes
the
mountains
And
plains
look
the
same,
A
smooth
forehead
from
east
To
east
again.
It
reaches
the
fence,
Covers
it
rail
by
rail,
Until
it
disappears
in
fleeces;
It
throws
a
crystal
veil
On
stump
and
stack
and
stem,
—
The
empty
room
of
summer,
Fields
where
crops
were,
Only
remembered
by
them.
It
ruffles
post
tops,
Like
a
queen's
ankles,
—
Then
quiets
its
workers
like
ghosts,
Denying
they
were
there.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B1 Inglés | Cuentana