Poem of the week: e.e.cummings

this is the garden:colours come and go by e.e. cummings

this is the garden: colours come and go, 
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing 
strong silent greens silently lingering, 
absolute lights like baths of golden snow. 
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow 
upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing 
(of harps celestial to the quivering string) 
invisible faces hauntingly and slow. 

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap 
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled, 
in other lands where other songs be sung; 
yet stand They here enraptured, as among 
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep 
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.