Caricamento in corso...

The Hills

the hills
like poets put on
purple thought against
the
 
magnificent clamor of
                                    day
tortured
in gold,which presently
 
crumpled
collapses
exhaling a red soul into the dark
 
so
duneyed master
enter
the sweet gates
 
                               of my heart and
take
the
rose,
 
which perfect
is
With killing hands
Altre opere di E. E. Cummings...



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