if i have made,my lady,intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes(frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind—if i have failed to snare
the glance too shy—if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair
—let the world say, "his most wise music stole
nothing from death"—
you only will create
(who are so perfectly alive)my shame:
lady through whose profound and fragile lips
the small clumsy feet of April came
into the ragged meadow of my soul.
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Hello Friends—
You can count this untitled E.E. Cummings poem from Is 5 (1926) among the most famous occurrences of "April" in poetry (see also Chaucer, Eliot). Some things don't change: this has also been Cathy's favorite poem for the entire decade we've been together — happy anniversary, my love.
–Ellen
Labels: April 13, E.E. Cummings, NPM