E. E. Cummings

When The Proficient Poison Of Sure Sleep

when the proficient poison of sure sleep bereaves us of our slow tranquillities and He without Whose favour nothing is (being of men called Love)upward doth leap from the mute hugeness of depriving deep with thunder of those hungering wings of His, into the lucent and large signories —i shall not smile,beloved;i shall not weep: when from the less-than-whiteness of thy face (whose eyes inherit vacancy)will time extract his inconsiderable doom, when these thy lips beautifully embrace nothing and when thy bashful hands assume silence beyond the mystery of rhyme

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