Thy fingers make early flowers of <br />all things. <br />thy hair mostly the hours love: <br />a smoothness which <br />sings,saying <br />(though love be a day) <br />do not fear,we will go amaying. <br /> <br />thy whitest feet crisply are straying. <br />Always <br />thy moist eyes are at kisses playing, <br />whose strangeness much <br />says;singing <br />(though love be a day) <br />for which girl art thou flowers bringing? <br /> <br />To be thy lips is a sweet thing <br />and small. <br />Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing <br />if this thou catch, <br />else missing. <br />(though love be a day <br />and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).<br /><br />Edward Estlin Cummings<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thy-fingers-make-early-flowers-of/
