ee cummings
this is the
garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer
wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths
of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes
within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering
string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time
shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other
lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as
among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain
steals the world.
