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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 3, Poema 27
XXVII.
INDIAN
SUMMER.
These
are
the
days
when
birds
return,
A
very
few,
a
bird
or
two,
To
take
a
backward
glance.
These
are
the
days
when
skies
put
on
The
old,
old
sophistries
of
June,
—
A
blue
and
gold
illusion.
Oh,
deception
that
cannot
fool
the
bee,
Almost
your
plausibility
Induces
my
belief,
Until
ranks
of
seeds
bear
witness,
And
softly
through
the
altered
air
A
timid
leaf
hurries!
Oh,
sacrament
of
summer
days,
Oh,
last
communion
in
the
haze,
Permit
a
child
to
join,
Thy
sacred
emblems
to
partake,
Thy
consecrated
bread
to
break,
Taste
thine
immortal
wine!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — C1 Inglés | Cuentana