the hills

by E. E. Cummings

E. E. Cummings

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





Last updated January 14, 2019