Poem by Edward Estlin Cummings

* * *

in spite of everything
which breathes and moves,since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
-before leaving my room
i turn,and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow,dear
where our heads lived and were.

1. next to of course god america i
2. because i love you
3. dying is fine
4. i have found what you are like
5. somewhere i have never travelled

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