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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 7, Poema 50
L.
THE
SNOW.
It
sifts
from
leaden
sieves,
It
powders
all
the
wood,
It
fills
with
alabaster
wool
The
wrinkles
of
the
road.
It
makes
an
even
face
Of
mountain
and
of
plain,
—
Unbroken
forehead
from
the
east
Unto
the
east
again.
It
reaches
to
the
fence,
It
wraps
it,
rail
by
rail,
Till
it
is
lost
in
fleeces;
It
flings
a
crystal
veil
On
stump
and
stack
and
stem,
—
The
summer's
empty
room,
Acres
of
seams
where
harvests
were,
Recordless,
but
for
them.
It
ruffles
wrists
of
posts,
As
ankles
of
a
queen,
—
Then
stills
its
artisans
like
ghosts,
Denying
they
have
been.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B2 Inglés | Cuentana