Saturday 25 February 2012

e.e. cummings

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another's,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
 
if this should be,i say if this should be- 
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands. 
 
As one of my 'teenage' poems, I'm sure this will be more familiar than those I have posted previously. It is interesting to me how there is a pattern emerging in the love poems I seem to be selecting with their final honest lines.

There were a number of favourite cummings poems I could have chosen, but the one that would have run this choice the closest is my father moved through dooms of love.

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