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My Lovemy lovethy hair is one kingdom the king whereof is darknessthy forehead is a flight of flowersthy head is a quick forest filled with sleeping birdsthy breasts are swarms of white bees upon the bough of thy bodythy body to me is Aprilin whose armpits is the approach of springthy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot of kingsthey are the striking of a good minstrelbetween them is always a pleasant songmy lovethy head is a casket of the cool jewel of thy mindthe hair of thy head is one warrior innocent of defeatthy hair upon thy shoulders is an army with victory and with trumpetsthy legs are the trees of dreamingwhose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulnessthy lips are satraps in scarlet in whose kiss is the combinings of kingsthy wristsare holy which are the keepers of the keys of thy bloodthy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases of silverin thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes thy eyes are the betrayalof bells comprehended through incenseE.E. Cummings