#cummings – pity his how illimitable plight

Pity his how illimitable plight

Who dies to be at any moment born—

Some for whom crumbs of colour can create

Precision more than angels fear to learn

And even fiends: or, if he paints with sound,

Newly one moving cadence may release

The fragrance of a freedom which no mind

Contrives (but certainly each spirit is)

And partially imagine whose despair

When every silence will not make a dream

Speak; or if to no millionth metaphor

Open the simple agony of time

—small wonder such a monster’s fellowmen

Miscalled are happy should his now go then


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