“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