domingo, 4 de diciembre de 2011

ROBERT FROST (California, 1874-1963) 
Tree at my window

  Tree at my window, window tree,
  My sash is lowered when night comes on;
  But let there never be curtain drawn
  Between you and me.
  Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
  And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
  Not all your light tongues talking aloud
  Could be profound.
  But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
  And if you have seen me when I slept
  You have seen me when I was taken and swept
  And all but lost.
  That day she put our heads together,
  Fate had her imagination about her,
  Your head so much concerned with outer,
  Mine with inner, weather.


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