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.
Always
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
she must be tired of something