[ festejou ontem cento e vinte risonhos outonos o senhor cummings. que contes muitos edward estlin. ]

it is at moments after i have dreamed


of the rare entertainment of your eyes,


when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;


at moments when the glassy darkness holds



the genuine apparition of your smile


(it was through tears always) and silence moulds


such strangeness as was mine a little while;



moments when my once more illustrious arms


are filled with fascination, when my breast


wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:



one pierced moment whiter than the rest



—turning from the tremendous lie of sleep


i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

e. e. cummings