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181
Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 6, Poema 8
VIII.
AT
HOME.
The
night
was
vast,
with
little
light
But
a
single
star,
That
often
when
a
cloud
it
met
Blew
out
itself
in
fear.
The
wind
chased
the
little
bush,
And
swept
away
the
leaves
November
left;
then
climbed
up
And
fretted
in
the
eaves.
No
squirrel
ventured
out;
A
dog's
late
feet
Like
soft
plush
were
heard
Down
the
empty
street.
To
check
if
blinds
are
fast,
And
closer
to
the
fire
Her
little
rocking-chair
to
draw,
And
shiver
for
the
poor,
The
housewife's
gentle
task.
"How
nicer,"
she
said
To
the
sofa
opposite,
The
sleet
than
May
—
no
you!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B2 Inglés | Cuentana