I spoke to thee
with a smile, and thou didst not
answer:
thy mouth is as
a chord of crimson music.



O thou, is life not a smile?

I spoke to thee with
a song, and thou
didst not listen:
thine eyes are as a vase
of divine silence.



O thou, is life not a song?

I spoke
to thee with a soul, and
thou didst not wonder:
thy face is as a dream locked
in white fragrance.



O thou, is life not love?

I speak to
thee with a sword,
and thou art silent:
thy breast is as a tomb
softer than flowers.



O thou, is love not death?

E. E. Cummings