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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 12, Poema 18
XVIII.
THE
SPIRIT.
It's
whiter
than
an
Indian
pipe,
It's
dimmer
than
a
lace;
No
stature
has
it,
like
a
fog,
When
you
approach
the
place.
No
voice
denotes
it
here,
Nor
intimates
it
there;
A
spirit,
how
does
it
address?
What
customs
does
the
air
have?
This
limitless
hyperbole
Each
one
of
us
shall
be;
It's
drama,
if
(hypothesis)
It
be
not
tragedy!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — C1 Inglés | Cuentana