E. E. Cummings

O Distinct

O Distinct Lady of my unkempt adoration if I have made a fragile curtain song under the window of your soul it is not like any songs (the singers the others they have been faithful to many things and which die i have been sometimes true to Nothing and which lives they were fond of the handsome moon       never spoke ill of the pretty stars       and to the serene the complicated and the obvious they were faithful and which i despise, frankly admitting i have been true only to the noise of worms in the eligible day under the unaccountable sun) Distinct Lady swiftly take my fragile certain song that we may watch together how behind the doomed exact smile of life’s placid obscure palpable carnival where to a normal melody of probable violins dance the square virtues with the oblong sins perfectly gesticulate the accurate strenuous lips of incorruptible Nothing       under the ample sun, under the insufficient day under the noise of worms

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