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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 8, Poema 13
XIII.
MEMORIALS.
Death
makes
a
thing
important
The
eye
had
hurried
by,
Except
a
lost
creature
Asks
us
tenderly
To
think
about
small
works
In
crayon
or
in
wool,
With
"This
was
last
her
fingers
did,"
Working
until
The
thimble
felt
too
heavy,
The
stitches
stopped
themselves,
And
then
it
was
put
among
the
dust
Upon
the
closet
shelves.
A
book
I
have,
a
friend
gave,
Whose
pencil,
here
and
there,
Marked
the
place
that
pleased
him,
—
At
rest
his
fingers
are.
Now,
when
I
read,
I
read
not,
For
tears
that
interrupt
Erase
the
etchings
Too
costly
to
fix.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B1 Inglés | Cuentana