History repeats itself. Last Monday – a pocket of hours to fill as I wished – I sauntered into Bücher Pustet in Regensburg once more and spent a lonesome 10 Euro note on another E. E. Cummings anthology. Where books (and sugar, but that’s another story) are concerned, I am helpless. This particular poem, devoured greedily on the train to Munich as a biblical thunderstorm writhed outside the window, is a new favourite. Have a lovely weekend! xo
You are tired,
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
E. E. Cummings