E. E. Cummings

Paris;this April Sunset Completely Utters

Paris;this April sunset completely utters utters serenely silently a cathedral before whose upward lean magnificent face the streets turn young with rain, spiral acres of bloated rose coiled within cobalt miles of sky yield to and heed the mauve of twilight(who slenderly descends, daintily carrying in her eyes the dangerous first stars) people move love hurry in a gently arriving gloom and see!(the new moon fills abruptly with sudden silver these torn pockets of lame and begging colour)while there and here the lithe indolent prostitute Night,argues with certain houses

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