7 de febrero de 2014

A poem by e. e. cummings


now air is air and thing is thing: no bliss
of heavenly earth beguiles our spirits, whose
miraculously disenchanted eyes
live the magnificent honesty of space.
Mountains are mountains now; skies now are skies –
and such a sharpening freedom lifts our blood
as if whole supreme this complete doubtless
universe we’d (and we alone) made
– yes; or as if our souls, awakened from
summer’s green trance, would not adventure soon
a deeper magic: that white sleep wherein
all human curiosity we’ll spend
(gladly, as lovers must) immortal and
the courage to receive time’s mightiest dream