E. E. Cummings

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  • it is at moments after i have dreamed
    of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
    when(being fool to fancy)i have deemed

    with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
    at moments when the glassy darkness holds

    the genuine apparition of your smile
    (it was through tears always)and silence moulds
    such strangeness as was mine a little while;

    moments when my once more illustrious arms
    are filled with fascination, when my breast
    wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

    one pierced moment whiter than the rest

    —turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
    i watch the roses of the day grow deep.