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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
strike
me
like
That
old
melody
in
the
branches,
That
wordless
tune
The
wind
makes,
working
like
a
hand
Whose
fingers
brush
the
sky,
Then
tremble
down,
with
tunes
Allowed
to
gods
and
me.
When
winds
swirl
around
in
bands,
And
tap
upon
the
door,
And
birds
take
places
overhead,
To
be
their
orchestra,
I
wish
him
grace,
of
summer
boughs,
If
such
an
outcast
be,
He
never
heard
that
silent
song
Rise
solemn
in
the
tree,
As
if
some
caravan
of
sound
On
deserts,
in
the
sky,
Had
broken
rank,
Then
joined,
and
passed
In
seamless
company.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B2 Inglés | Cuentana