Poem: I Carry Your Heart With Me
Author: E.E. Cummings
Source: American English World Melly
Source:American English World Rose
I carry your heart with me
I carry it in my heart
I am never without it
Anywhere I go you go, my dear
And whatever is done
By only me is your doing, my darling
I fear no fate
For you are my fate, my sweet
I want no world
For beautiful you are my world, my true
And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
And whatever a sun will always sing is you
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
And the sky of the sky of a tree called life
Which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart
I carry it in my heart
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E. E. Cummings
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Edward Estlin Cummings (October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962), popularly known as E. E. Cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, and playwright.
His body of work encompasses more than 900 poems, several plays and essays, numerous drawings, sketches, and paintings, as well as two novels.
He is remembered as a preeminent voice of 20th century poetry, as well as one of the most enduringly popular.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E.e.cummings
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Poem: somewhere i have never traveled
Author: e.e.cummings
来源: [美语世界] 旁白 于 07-11-30 07:26:38
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands