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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 12, Poema 38
XXXVIII.
DEAD.
There's
something
quieter
than
sleep
Within
this
inner
room!
It
wears
a
sprig
upon
its
breast,
And
will
not
tell
its
name.
Some
touch
it
and
some
kiss
it,
Some
chafe
its
idle
hand;
It
has
a
simple
gravity
I
do
not
understand!
While
simple-hearted
neighbors
Chat
of
the
'early
dead,'
We,
prone
to
periphrasis,
Remark
that
birds
have
fled!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — C2 Inglés | Cuentana