E. E. Cummings Poetry

along the brittle treacherous bright streets

along the brittle treacherous bright streets

of memory comes my heart singing like
an idiot whispering like drunken man

who(at a certain corner suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.

awake
being not asleep elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner

-"Ici?"-"Ah non mon chéri;il fait trop froid"-
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind br
inging
rain and leaves filling the air with fear
and sweetness....pauses. (Halfwhispering....half
singing

stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)

when you were in Paris we met here

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