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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 7, Poema 44
XLIV.
MY
CRICKET.
Further
in
summer
than
the
birds,
Sad
from
the
grass,
A
smaller
nation
celebrates
Its
quiet
mass.
No
ceremony
is
seen,
So
gradual
the
grace,
A
thoughtful
custom
it
becomes,
Enlarging
solitude.
Most
keenly
felt
at
noon
When
August,
burning
low,
Calls
forth
this
spectral
song,
To
symbolize
rest.
Grant
as
yet
no
grace,
No
shadow
on
the
glow,
Yet
a
druidic
difference
Enhances
nature
now.
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