a thing most new complete fragile intense,
which wholly trembling memory undertakes
-- your kiss, the little pushings of flesh, makes
my body sorry when the minute moon
is a remarkbale splinter in the quick
of twilight
. . . or if sunset utters one
unhurried muscled huge chrmoatic
fist skilfully modeling silence
-- to feel how through the stopped entire day
horribly and seriously thrills
the moment of enthusiastic space
is a little wonderful, and say
Perhaps her body touched me; and to face

suddenly the lighted living hills

-- e. e. cummings

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