Cruelly, Love
a poem by: E.E. Cummings
walk the autumn long;
the last flower in whose hair,
they lips are cold with songs
for which is
first to wither, to pass?
shallowness of sunlight
falls, and cruelly,
across the grass
Comes the
moon
love, walk the
autumn
love, for the last
flower in the hair withers;
thy hair is acold with
dreams,
love thou art frail
—walk the longness of autumn
smile dustily to the people,
for winter
who crookedly care.
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We are passionate about the world we inhabit; Aware there are two sides to every story. Persistent in our pursuit of all points of view.
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A website offering fresh, original and exclusive material by writers who espouse the philosophy that “Words Matter” and believe that imagination is the seed of accomplishment.
We are passionate about the world we inhabit; Aware there are two sides to every story. Persistent in our pursuit of all points of view.
A place to think, to laugh, to shed a tear. Where words are gifts that feed the soul; ignite a flame within the heart; excite the recesses of the brain; spark passions and concerns; inspire the conscious and subconscious.
Join Spillwords for this and more…
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