E. E. Cummings

Of Nicolette

dreaming in marble all the castle lay like some gigantic ghost-flower born of night blossoming in white towers to the moon, soft sighed the passionate darkness to the tune of tiny troubadours,and(phantom-white) dumb-blooming boughs let fall their glorious snows and the unearthly sweetness of a rose swam upward from the troubled heart of May; a Winged Passion woke and one by one there fell upon the night,like angel's tears, the syllables of that mysterious prayer, and as an opening lily drowsy-fair (when from her couch of poppy petals peers the sleepy morning)gently draws apart her curtains,and lays bare her trembling heart, with beads of dew made jewels by the sun, so one high shining tower(which as a glass turned light to flame and blazed with snowy fire) unfolding,gave the moon a nymphlike face, a form whose snowy symmetry of grace haunted the limbs as music haunts the lyre, a creature of white hands,who letting fall a thread of lustre from the castle wall glided,a drop of radiance,to the grass- shunning the sudden moonbeam's treacherous snare she sought the harbouring dark,and(catching up her delicate silk)all white,with shining feet, went forth into the dew:right wildly beat her heart at every kiss of daisy-cup, and from her cheek the beauteous colour went with every bough that reverently bent to touch the yellow wonder of her hair.

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