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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 3, Poema 24
XXIV.
THE
WIND.
Of
all
the
sounds
despatched
abroad,
There's
not
a
charge
to
me
Like
that
old
measure
in
the
boughs,
That
phraseless
melody
The
wind
does,
working
like
a
hand
Whose
fingers
brush
the
sky,
Then
quiver
down,
with
tufts
of
tune
Permitted
gods
and
me.
When
winds
go
round
and
round
in
bands,
And
thrum
upon
the
door,
And
birds
take
places
overhead,
To
bear
them
orchestra,
I
crave
him
grace,
of
summer
boughs,
If
such
an
outcast
be,
He
never
heard
that
fleshless
chant
Rise
solemn
in
the
tree,
As
if
some
caravan
of
sound
On
deserts,
in
the
sky,
Had
broken
rank,
Then
knit,
and
passed
In
seamless
company.
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — C2 Inglés | Cuentana