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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 12, Poema 18
XVIII.
THE
SPIRIT.
It's
whiter
than
an
Indian
pipe,
It's
dimmer
than
lace;
No
form
has
it,
like
a
fog,
When
you
approach
the
place.
No
voice
marks
it
here,
Or
hints
it
there;
A
spirit,
how
does
it
greet?
What
customs
has
the
air?
This
limitless
exaggeration
Each
of
us
shall
be;
It's
drama,
if
(hypothetically)
It's
not
a
tragedy!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B2 Inglés | Cuentana