by E. E. CummingsGreat carnal mountains crouching in the cloud That marrieth the young earth with a ring, Yet still its thoughts builds heavenward, whence spring Wee villages of vapor, sunset-proud. — And to the meanest door hastes one pure-browed White-fingered star, a little, childish thing, The busy needle of her light to bring, And stitch, and stitch, upon the dead day’s shroud. Poises the sun upon his west, a spark Superlative, — and dives beneath the world; From the day’s fillets Night shakes out her locks; List! One pure trembling drop of cadence purled — “Summer!” — a meek thrush whispers to the dark. Hark! the cold ripple sneering on the rocks!