E. E. Cummings

Who’s Most Afraid Of Death?thou

who’s most afraid of death?thou art of him utterly afraid,i love of thee (beloved)this and truly i would be near when his scythe takes crisply the whim of thy smoothness.  and mark the fainting murdered petals.  with caving stem. But of all most would i be one of them round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling….) i who am but imperfect in my fear Or with thy mind against my mind,to hear nearing our hearts’ irrevocable play— through the mysterious high futile day an enormous stride (and drawing thy mouth toward my mouth,steer our lost bodies carefully downward.

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