by 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
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Last updated January 14, 2019