Poem by Edward Estlin Cummings

* * *

Thy fingers make early flowers
of all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

1. come nothing to my comparable soul
2. I have seen her stealthily frail
3. who’s most afraid of death?
4. a fragrant sag of fruit distinctly grouped
5. if learned darkness from our searched world

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