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Poemas de Emily Dickinson, Tres Series, Completo
Colección 7, Poema 44
XLIV.
MY
CRICKET.
Farther
in
summer
than
the
birds,
Pathetic
from
the
grass,
A
minor
nation
celebrates
Its
unobtrusive
mass.
No
ordinance
is
seen,
So
gradual
the
grace,
A
pensive
custom
it
becomes,
Enlarging
loneliness.
Antiquest
felt
at
noon
When
August,
burning
low,
Calls
forth
this
spectral
canticle,
Repose
to
typify.
Remit
as
yet
no
grace,
No
furrow
on
the
glow,
Yet
a
druidic
difference
Enhances
nature
now.
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