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.
e.e. cummings,
Poems, 1923-1954
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