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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 5, Poema 6
VI.
HOPE.
Hope
is
the
thing
with
feathers
That
perches
in
the
soul,
And
sings
the
tune
without
the
words,
And
never
stops
at
all,
And
sweetest
in
the
gale
is
heard;
And
sore
must
be
the
storm
That
could
abash
the
little
bird
That
kept
so
many
warm.
I
've
heard
it
in
the
chillest
land,
And
on
the
strangest
sea;
Yet,
never,
in
extremity,
It
asked
a
crumb
of
me.
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