Round Here

Thy fingers make early flowers of
all things.
they 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.
they 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).

-e. e. cummings (1923)

if I ever had the chance to woo a girl with poetry this would be the one.

she says she's tired of life
she must be tired of something


Parker said...

You just wooed this girl with poetry. Ohh baby.

Adrian said...

Dude, maybe like 10,000 years ago it would work -_- but seriously, reciting poems like that in this day and age.. would totally only work with theater people.