E. E. Cummings

Thy Fingers Make Early Flowers Of

Thy fingers make early flowers of all things. thy hair mostly the hours love: a smoothness which sings,saying (though love be a day) do not fear,we will go amaying. thy whitest feet crisply are straying. Always thy moist eyes are at kisses playing, whose strangeness much says;singing (though love be a day) for which girl art thou flowers bringing? To be thy lips is a sweet thing and small. Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing if this thou catch, else missing. (though love be a day and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

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