E. E. Cummings

Cruelly, Love

cruelly,love walk the autumn long; the last flower in whose hair, they lips are cold with songs for which is first to wither,to pass? shallowness of sunlight falls,and cruelly, across the grass Comes the moon love,walk the autumn love,for the last flower in the hair withers; thy hair is acold with dreams, love thou art frail —walk the longness of autumn smile dustily to the people, for winter who crookedly care.

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