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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 9, Poema 45
XLIV.
The
bone
that
lacks
marrow;
What
fate
awaits
it?
It
is
not
fit
for
table,
For
beggar,
or
for
cat.
A
bone
has
its
duties,
A
being
has
the
same;
A
marrowless
gathering
Is
more
guilty
than
shame.
But
how
shall
finished
beings
Find
a
new
purpose?
—
Old
Nicodemus'
ghost
Confronts
us
once
more!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — B2 Inglés | Cuentana