E. E. Cummings

And What Were Roses

and what were roses.  Perfume?for i do forget…or mere Music mounting unsurely twilight but here were something more maturely childish,more beautiful almost than you. Yet if not flower,tell me softly who be these haunters of dreams always demurely halfsmiling from cool faces,moving purely with muted steps,yet somewhat proudly too— are they not ladies,ladies of my dreams justly touching roses their fingers whitely live by? or better, queens,queens laughing lightly crowned with far colors, thinking very much of nothing and whom dawn loves most to touch wishing by willows,bending upon streams?

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