| from "is 5": Five: V... e.e. cummings... |
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if i have made,my lady,intricate imperfect various things chiefly which wrong your eyes(frailer than most deep dreams are frail) songs less firm than your body's whitest song upon my mind-if i have failed to snare the glance too shy-if through my singing slips the very skilful strangeness of your smile the keen primeval silence of your hair |
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-let the world say "his most wise music stole nothing from death"- you only will create (who are so perfectly alive)my shame: lady through whose profound and fragile lips the sweet small clumsy feet of April came |
| into the ragged meadow of my soul. |
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