E.E. Cummings: "95 Poems (52)"

 "why 
     do the 
     fingers 

     of the lit 
     tle once beau 
     tiful la 

     dy(sitting sew 
     ing at an o 
     pen window this 
     fine morning)fly 

     instead of dancing 
     are they possibly 
     afraid that life is 
     running away from 
     them(i wonder)or 

     isnt't she a 
     ware that life(who 
     never grows old) 
     is always beau 

     tiful and 
     that nobod 
     y beauti 

     ful ev 
     er hur 

     ries"