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181
Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 6, Poema 8
VIII.
AT
HOME.
The
night
was
wide,
and
furnished
scant
With
but
a
single
star,
That
often
as
a
cloud
it
met
Blew
out
itself
for
fear.
The
wind
pursued
the
little
bush,
And
drove
away
the
leaves
November
left;
then
clambered
up
And
fretted
in
the
eaves.
No
squirrel
went
abroad;
A
dog's
belated
feet
Like
intermittent
plush
were
heard
Adown
the
empty
street.
To
feel
if
blinds
be
fast,
And
closer
to
the
fire
Her
little
rocking-chair
to
draw,
And
shiver
for
the
poor,
The
housewife's
gentle
task.
"How
pleasanter,"
said
she
Unto
the
sofa
opposite,
The
sleet
than
May
—
no
thee!
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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo — C2 Inglés | Cuentana