The Hills

E. E. Cummings

the hills
like poets put on
purple thought against
the

magnificent clamor of
                                    day
tortured
in gold,which presently

crumpled
collapses
exhaling a red soul into the dark

so
duneyed master
enter
the sweet gates

                               of my heart and
take
the
rose,

which perfect
is
With killing hands

Next 10 Poems

• E. E. Cummings : The Hours Rise Up Putting Off Stars And It Is
• E. E. Cummings : The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner
• E. E. Cummings : The Moon Is Hiding In
• E. E. Cummings : The Phonograph's Voice Like A Keen Spider Skipping
• E. E. Cummings : The Poem Her Belly Marched Through Me As
• E. E. Cummings : The Rose
• E. E. Cummings : The Skinny Voice
• E. E. Cummings : The Sky A Silver
• E. E. Cummings : The Sky Was
• E. E. Cummings : The Wind Is A Lady With

Previous 10 Poems

• E. E. Cummings : The Glory Is Fallen Out Of
• E. E. Cummings : The Emperor
• E. E. Cummings : The Eagle
• E. E. Cummings : The Cambridge Ladies Who Live In Furnished Souls
• E. E. Cummings : The Bigness Of Cannon
• E. E. Cummings : The Bed Is Not Very Big
• E. E. Cummings : Take For Example This
• E. E. Cummings : Ta
• E. E. Cummings : Suppose
• E. E. Cummings : Stinging