by ee cummings
cruelly,love
walk the autumn long;
the last flower in whose hair,
thy lips are cold with songs
for which is
first to whither, 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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