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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 12, Poema 18
XVIII.
THE
SPIRIT.
'T
is
whiter
than
an
Indian
pipe,
'T
is
dimmer
than
a
lace;
No
stature
has
it,
like
a
fog,
When
you
approach
the
place.
Not
any
voice
denotes
it
here,
Or
intimates
it
there;
A
spirit,
how
doth
it
accost?
What
customs
hath
the
air?
This
limitless
hyperbole
Each
one
of
us
shall
be;
'T
is
drama,
if
(hypothesis)
It
be
not
tragedy!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — C2 Inglés | Cuentana