E. E. Cummings

Yours Is The Music For No Instrument

yours is the music for no instrument yours the preposterous colour unbeheld —mine the unbought contemptuous intent till this our felsh merely shall be excelled by speaking flower (if I have made songs it does not greatly matter to the sun, nor will rain care cautiously who prolongs unserious twilight)Shadows have begun the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe…. yours are the poems i do not write. In this at least we have got a bulge on death, silence,and the keenly musical light of sudden nothing….la bocca mia “he kissed wholly trembling” or so thought the lady.

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