Thy fingers make early flowers of all things. 

thy hair mostly the hours love: 

a smoothness which sings,saying 

(though love be a day) do not fear,we will go amaying.  

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.

Always thy moist eyes are at kisses playing, 

whose strangeness much says;singing 

(though love be a day) for which girl art thou flowers bringing?  

To be thy lips is a sweet thing and small. 

Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing

 if this thou catch, else missing.

 (though love be a day and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

e. e. cummings