[Poems] Complete poems, /E.E. Cummings: edited by George J. Firmage.—Rev., corr., and expanded ed. containing all the published poetry, p. cm. Classic Poetry Series. Edward Estlin Cummings. - poems -. Publication Date: Publisher: maroc-evasion.info - The World's Poetry Archive. e.e. cummings poems anyone lived in a pretty how town. (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his .
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Yoga is, indeed, an excellent form of exercise that carries with it many. own sequences of yoga 2, Asanas: The C Complete Quantitative Aptitude. PDF | On Jan 1, , Eva Gomez-jimenez and others published E. E. Cummings ' Erotic Poems. PDF | Thesis (Ph.D. (English))--Potchefstroom University for Christian Higher Education, E.E. Cummings' modernist poetry roots itself in.
I don't respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.
No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances.
We must try. I didn't always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out. In a moment or a few years, maybe several, I will encounter what Henry James called, on his deathbed, "the Distinguished Thing.
I have already been declared dead. It wasn't so bad. After a ruptured artery following my first cancer surgery, the doctors thought I was finished. My wife Chaz said she sensed that I was still alive, and communicating to her that I wasn't finished yet. She said hearts were beating in unison, although my heartbeat couldn't be discovered.
She told the doctors I was alive, they did what doctors do, and here I am, alive. Do I believe her? I believe her literally--not symbolically, figuratively or spiritually.
I believe she was actually aware of my call, and that she sensed my heartbeat. I believe she did it in the real, physical world I have described, the one I live in with my wristwatch.
I see no reason why such communication could not take place. I'm not talking about telepathy, psychic phenomenon or a miracle. The only miracle is that she was there when it happened, as she was for many long days and nights. I'm talking about her standing there and knowing something.
Haven't many of us experienced that? Come on, haven't you? I admire Skeptic magazine, but I'm not interested in their explanation or debunking of this event. What goes on happens at a level not accessible to scientists, theologians, mystics, physicists, philosophers or psychiatrists.
It's a human kind of a thing. Someday I will no longer call out, and there will be no heartbeat. What happens then? From my point of view, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Still, as I wrote today to a woman I have known since she was six: "You'd better cry at my memorial service. Our subject sometimes turns to death.
I think that is a lovely thing to read, and a relief to find I will probably not have to go on foot. Footnote: At the urging of a reader, I took this quiz.
It evaluated my replies and, from a list of 27 religions or belief systems, informed me that my top five categories were: 1. That was sort of what I expected. Below: A poetry reading by the peerless Tom O'Bedlam. Lawrence Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map. I ask myself, shouldn't the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France? Just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. We cannot get to a star while we are alive any more than we can take the train when we are dead.
So to me it seems possible that cholera, tuberculosis and cancer are the celestial means of locomotion. As for the use of verbs in the two poems in question, most of them are verbs of action.
In other words, anything and everything is open to different interpretations. If we now look at the verbs in the poem, we can see that they create a sense of immediacy as we read it. All the verbs that are marked for tense finite verbs are in the present tense. The syntactic level of his poems is often a persuasive parallelism based on syntactic deviation. Kidder, R. Every first two lines in each stanza are interrogative but the question mark only appears after the fourth line, with a continuation of the second part of the question.
While the fifth and sixth lines are also a continuation of the second part of the original question but start with a capital letter. Each line is followed by a bracketed alternative suggesting another face of the same coin.
The fifth line in each of the 3 stanzas, however, does not mark the beginning of a new sentence; it always comes after a dash, not a full stop. The main theme is the confusion of appearance and reality, nothing is what it seems, and, furthermore, everything is its own counterpart. All possibilities and probabilities are valid. This world is not as stable and systematic as it may seem to us.
The use of pronouns instead of nouns makes the poem more open to different interpretations and less tied down to concrete individual entities. It consists of nine stanzas with 36 lines, each stanza made up of 4 lines.
The use of antonymous verbs in pairs of clauses with the second used as a verbal noun in the form of a gerund or even treated as a noun while retaining its verbal tense form. In both poems, Cummings tries to capture the idea of a multitude of thoughts occurring simultaneously by breaking grammatical conventions. He uses both definite and indefinite references within the same clause a much, a which. This may enhance the possibility that anything and everything could happen as well as the notion of uncertainty and chaos.
The two poems under study are www. The reason for the destruction of nature and, paradoxically, the only one that can stop it, survive it, and produce life out of death, viz. Another instance of parallelism in the poem occurs at the phonological level, where the rhyme scheme is irregular except that of the second and fourth lines of every stanza rhyme.
Cummings does make use of internal rhyme at particular points within the poem. There is no strict pattern to its occurrence, yet, there is some degree of phonological parallelism in each stanza, such as the repetition of vowel sounds in words in close proximity to each other. However, one of the effects of this graphological deviation is to foreground any instances where Cummings does use capitalization.
In addition to the graphic deviations, there are also a number of grammatical deviations in the two poems. For instance, we get phrases being bracketed which may be used to indicate visually immediacy or simultaneously.
Again, this contributes to our understanding of the poem as being very active and dynamic and emphasizes the idea that everything would be destroyed except Man. If we examine the poems closely, we can see that there is actually some kind of systematicity to grammatical deviations.
In other words, there is order bestowed on chaos and systematization of the breaking of systems! Then, with the fifth stanza, the whole process www. First, the longer bracketed sentence along three different lines, then the short phrase forming only part of a line and, finally, a whole bracketed line. The change of order may again reflect the revolving nature of the universe as a whole. Disorder is embedded in order and order is yet an innate feature of disorder. Form and content both interact to give birth to a work of art that is almost as open to different interpretation as life itself.
Thus, we may conclude that E. In addition to the graphological deviation in the poems, there is also some degree of graphological parallelism in the arrangement of the poems into stanzas.
The first poem is set up in 3 regular eight-line stanzas. This seems to suggest that there is some order in form of the poem. It is not the chaotic graphological jumble that it first appears. It is difficult, though, to know what to make of the parallel structure of the poem, and if we were to try to relate it to our initial impression of the poem, it would be a pretty tenuous interpretation.
However, Dixit studied a corpus of E. Cummings poems in detail and concluded that, far from being arbitrary examples of deviation, the poems are, in fact, systematically deviant. Conclusion Having analyzed the two poems in question stylistically, making use of a more or less a statistical approach, the researchers may be entitled to reflect on whether or not the initial responses to the poems as well as the critical reviews are compatible with the findings of the statistical analysis.
The analysis proves that the poems are open to several possibilities and interpretations, which is, in turn, reflected in the use of pronouns instead of nouns, the excessive use of functional words as well as the seemingly deviant stylistic techniques, in addition to the use of verbs and relative pronouns or question words as if they were nouns.
The boundaries between different lexical and grammatical categories seem to fade away, just like man and Nature at times seem to intermingle and become one, while at other times they appear to stand in contrast with each other. Everything is a may be. Everything is possible and everything may turn to be something else or nothing at all. Life and death are two sides of the same coin, death leads to growth, to life, and life ends with death.
Order manifests itself within disorder and symmetry is born from chaos. The previous analysis of E. It also enables us to speculate with more certainty on precisely why E. Cummings may have chosen to use such seemingly odd stylistic techniques. Stylistics, then, is helpful in explaining parts and aspects of a text that might otherwise skip the attention of the reader. In conclusion, though, this research has only attempted to cast some light on how the linguistic features of a poem are directly related to the conceptual message of the literary work, and, in doing so, the researchers have upheld their initial interpretation of the poems under study.
Indeed, the interpretation endorsed by the researchers is not the only one that could be given to the poems. However, by using a systematic analytical technique like stylistics, one can, at least, ensure that a given interpretation is as explicit, objective and grounded in facts as it can be. It is also highly likely that any other stylistic analysis of the poems concerned would include, at least, www. The researchers hope, then, that they have illustrated how to explain why a text makes one feel in a particular way rather than another, and that this research has gone some way towards convincing the reader that stylistics is a useful tool for anybody interpreting literary texts, not only the professional critic, but also the non-specialist reader.
References Antony, L. Electronic Dictionaries and Encyclopedias CD ed. Ball State. His Students, pp. Cambridge, Mass: Slavica Publishers. Biography of E. Patterns of Deviation in Selected Poems of E. Cummings, Unpublished M. Lancaster University. London: Longman. Edition Copyright What If a Much of a Which of a Wind.
Cummings and Ungrammar: a Study of Syntactic. Michigan University: Watermill Publishers. Friedman, Norman. Delicious dark the hive of heaven drips; Now in the firmament all shining crowd The trembling, yearning stars, that cannot speak For perfect joy; now steals a shadowy cloud, A radiant tear, across the moon's pale cheek.
Dumbly the glorious sky yields up her lips. New skies new seasons bring. Wee red men build their lodge of yellow sands In the primeval grass; the willow stands Donned in her ermine, to be crowned with Spring. How high the sky's vast purple palace towers!
And lo, the pride of majesty beguiled, With playful hands, King Winter's laughing child, Sweet April Heaven, from that royal brow Hath plucked the snowy wreath of cloud, and now Flings from her lap the million fluttering flowers. The face Of heaven clouded with the Day's red doom Was veiled in silent darkness, and the musk Of summer's glorious rose breathed in the gloom.
Then from the world's harsh voice and glittering eyes, The awful rant and roar of men and things, Forth fared we into Silence. The strong wings Of Nature shut us from the common crowd; On high, the stars like sleeping butterflies Hung from the great grey drowsyflowersof cloud. Three fragrant trees which guard the gates, Three perfume-trees which sweeten nights, Rise upon heaven, full of stars And dripping with white radiance. Her body is more white than trees.
Five founts of Bacchus, honey-cold, Five showers making drunk the lawns, Spout up a dark delicious rain Filling the earth with sleep and tears. Her tresses are more sweet than wine. Seven flowers which breathe divinity, Seven wondering blossoms of embrace, Open their glory to the moon, Kissing white immortality.
Her mouth is chaster than a flower. When the fleet moonlight silently Fled like a white nymph down the grass, Leaving the night to loneliness, All songfully I loved my love In gardens of white ivory.
The strings are silver to my harp, And all the frame is ebony I think the moon is blossoming— My hungry fingers bite the strings— My harp becomes a flower, and blooms. The strings are golden to my harp, And all the frame is as a rose. I think the moon is quivering— My longing fingers search the chords— My harp becomes a heart, and breaks.
When thefirstday-beam silently Broke like an arrow from the east, Quivering unto the heights of dawn, All silently I left my love In gardens of white ivory. There are three trees which stand like dreams Before the gates of ivory; The moon has withered in the west— My harp has withered—Hail the day! Wherefore this dagger at my thighs. There arefivefounts which play like sleep Upon the gates of ivory; The moon is songless in the west— My harp is songless—Hail the day!
Wherefore this dagger at my hands. There are sevenflowerswhich smile like death Within the gates of ivory; The moon is broken in the west— My harp is broken—Hail the day! Wherefore this dagger at my heart. Here will I meet my love Beneath hushed trees. Over the silver meadows Offlower-foldedgrass, Shall come unto me Her feet like arrows of moonlight.
Under the magic forest Mute with shadow, I will utterly greet The blown star of her face. By white waters Sheathed in rippling silence, Shall I behold her hands Hurting the dark with lilies. Hush thee to worship, soul!
Now is thy movement of love. Night; and a red cloud Under the moon. I n green cloisters throng Shy nuns of evening, telling beads of song. Swallows, like winged prayers, soar steadily by, Hallowing twilight. From the faint and high, Night waves her misting censers, and along The world, the singing rises into strong, Pure peace. Now earth and heaven twain raptures die. I knew your presence in the twilight mist, In the world-filling darkness, in the rain That spoke in whispers,—for the world was kissed And laid in sleep.
The Christlike sun Moves to his resurrection in rejoicing heights, And priestly hills partake of morning one by one. I look for you when comes the beautiful blue moon, When earth is as a queen whose soul hath taken flight, Embalmed in the entire strength of perfect light. The immense heaven, a vase of utter silence, towers Vastward, beyond where dreams the unawakened moon, Holding infinity and her invisible flowers.
The hours drum up to sunset; now the west awakes To armies. Suddenly across the firmament Couriers of light spur forth their captain's high intent.
Now devout legions, mustering heavenward without cease, Face the hushed hordes of night. A trumpet-radiance breaks— I see the young ranked glories marching down to peace. Twilight, and great with silence of beginning dreams, Yet haunted still by broken hosts in brave retreat, Of blameless cohorts whelmed into sublime defeat, Which, darkly under world their ragged spears withdraw, Shall rise tofirethe night in far victorious gleams, When over the towered east leaps the white sword of dawn. So do I want you, when in heavenly spaces God Slips His white wonders on the silent trail of time; When out the smoking eve begins to slowly climb A great, red, fearsomeflower,about whose fatal face The faint moths gather and die—till withered pale, she nod Far in the west, and morn the little dreams shall chase.
Now is the world at peace; Heaven unto her heart Holdeth sublimities afar from touch of day, Presents divine the fates shall never take away, Unfaded memories, immortal ponderings, The little knock of prayer whereby are thrown apart Those inner doors which lead into all priceless things. O night, mother divine of poetry and stars! O thou whose patient face is nearest unto God, Thou of chaste feet with beautiful oblivion shod, Having the dear, swift-winged dark within thy hands,— The prison invisible of souls thy peace unbars, And love and I rise up into unspoken lands.
I cried. Life, I bid thee to say. Who hath taken away Her who sate at my side. For whiter is she than any pearl; But the nights be lonely and dread.
Life, what hast thou done with thy loveliest girl? Look to the wood, She said. For the white bird, O, the white bird, Sleep he toucheth the white bird, The white bird and the red. Give me her eyes! For I would kiss them asleep, That are so cool and deep, So soft and wondering wide. Bluer are they than ponds of dream; But the skies be grey o'erhead.
Life, where may the eyes of thy fairest gleam? Look to thefield,She said. For the blueflower,O, the blue flower, Night he stilleth the blue flower, The blueflowerand the red. O, for her hair! Her young and wonderful hair, To hide my sorrow there, In the heart of a shining tide. For her hair is more yellow than Heaven's dawn; But the world's last leaves be shed.
Life, where is thy youngest angel gone? Look to the west, She said. For the yellow light, O, the yellow light, Death he moweth the yellow light, The yellow light and the red. Well 'ware art Thou that these have no redress, For always in Thine eyes is all distress Of bodies that without due raiment be; But are there Souls in winter garmentless, Be with them, God! Not for the hungry has my spirit care, Whether their bodies shall befilledor no, With whom the world her bounty will not share, Wherefore they move on feeble feet and slow, Feeling dear Death within their bodies grow: Thou knowest these at pain beyond confess, For sorrow never may Thy ears transgress, Though lips be locked and pain shall hold the key; But are there Souls whom hunger doth oppress.
Be with them, God! Not for the homeless do I ask, where e'er The lights of Hell their haunting faces show, The legion undesired anywhere, Whose hearts Love shall not build in,—who shall sow And reap such loneliness as murder's woe: Thy gracious mouth to these shall acquiesce, Which is so very wonderful to bless The plundered heart with joy held long in fee; But are there Souls that know not Love's caress, Be with them God!
Envoi Father, for this we thank Thee without cesse: Death is the body's birthright, as I guess, But are there Souls that walk in hopelessness, Be with them God!
Ere my day be troubled of coming darkness, While the huge whole sky is elate with glory, Let me rise, and making my salutation, Stride into sunset. Cloaked in green thunder are the sudden shores Guarding the lintel's gold, whence of the wall Leaps the white echo; and within, the fall Is heard of the eternal feet of wars.
Here, at high ease, saw I those purple lords, Sipping the wine of unforgetfulness, Upon thrones intimate with all the skies: Roland, and Richard, 'mid the shining press; Leonidas, belted with living swords; And Albert, with the lions in his eyes.
There is a journey, And who is for the long road Loves not to linger. For him the night calls, Out of the dawn and sunset Who has made poems.
Oh thou that mournest thy heroic dead Fallen in youth and promise gloriously, In the deep meadows of their motherland Turning the silver blossoms into gold, The valor of thy children comfort thee. Oh thou that bowest thy ecstatic face, Thy perfect sorrows are the world's to keep! Wherefore unto thy knees come we with prayer, Mother heroic, mother glorious, Beholding in thy eyes immortal tears. Or is the world so wide That souls may easily forget their speech, And the strong love that binds us each to each Who have stood together watching God's white tide Pouring, and those bright shapes of dreams which ride Through darkness; we who have walked the silent beach Strown with strange wonders out of ocean's reach Which the nextfloodin her great heart shall hide?
Do not forget me, though the sands should fall, And many things be swept away in deep, And a new vision uttered to the shore,— If after days bespeak me not at all, Nor other's praise awake my song from sleep, Nor Poetry remember, anymore. A cette intervention se seraient jointes les troupes de Wrangle qui auraient traverse la Roumanie A leur retour de la con- ference energetique de Londres, se rendant en U. Dans l'organisation de I'intervention le role directeur appartient a la France qui en a conduit la preparation avec l'aide active du Gouvernement anglais In the organization of the intervention the chief role belongs to France which has pre- pared it with the active aid of the English government But when it rains chickens we'll all catch larks —to borrow a phrase from Karl the Marks.
As a child he was puny;shrank from noise hated the girls and mistrusted the boise, didn't like whisky,learned to spell and generally seemed to be going to hell; so his parents,encouraged by desperation, gave him a classical education and went to sleep in their boots again out in the land where women are main.
You know the rest: But every bathtub will have its gin and one man's sister's another man's sin and a hand in the bush is a stitch in time and Aint It All A Bloody Shime and he suffered a fate which is worse than death and I don't allude to unpleasant breath. Our blooming hero awoke,one day, tofindhe had nothing whatever to say: For what did our intellectual do, when he found himself so empty and bio? Not I am a fake,but America's phoney! Not I am no artist,but Art's bologney!
Or—briefly to paraphrase Karl the Marx— 'The first law of nature is,trees will be parx. For whoso conniveth at Lenin his dream shall dine upon bayonets,isn't and seam and a miss is as good as a mile is best for if you're not bourgeois you're Eddie Gest and wastelands live and waistlines die, which I very much hope it won't happen to eye; or as comrade Shakespeare remarked of old All that Glisters Is Mike Gold but a rolling snowball gathers no sparks —and the same hold true of Karl the Marks.
A warm, serene, soft heaven gazes down With dreamy eyes upon thefiend-crampedworld. The rosy eastern glow, the sun's I Come, Patters about the sky, and coos, and smiles— Sweet babe with tender, rose-begetting feet. From a black corpse of tree, the hideous rasp Of staring grackles, clucking and bowing each In drivelling salute, splits the soft air To inharmonious fragments; everywhere A nervous, endless, hoarse, incessant chirp Of sparrows telling all the evil news.
Ah, God—for the flower-air of Spring! To see The world in bud! To press with eager feet The dear, soft, thrilling green again! To be Once more in touch with heaven upon earth! One soul-toned thrush's perfect harmony, One little warbler's huge felicity, One buttercup! One perfect butterfly! Fine as cloth Moon-spun on elfin loom,each filmy wall, Light as a buoyant cloudlet's feathery froth, Frail as a lily's face,soft as a silver moth.
Ill Night shall eat these girls and boys. Time makes his meal of thee and me. Love a broken doll shall be; the moon and sun like tired toys with all whereat joined hearts rejoice shall drop softly into the sea. Night shall eat these girls and boys.
Love,lady,prizeth wisely thee; whose white and little hand annoys the universal death,pardi: O Pilgrim of green springtide and blue skies, Thy heart is dear to men of every age, All sympathy is in thy withered page, Whose soul was singing ere thy hand was wise. Ye spell, Beaneath his feet who walked in Heaven and Hell, "L'ltalia. Silent he stands, and like a sentinel Stares from beneath those brows of dread renown.
Terrible, beautiful face, from whose pale lip Anathema hurtled upon the world, Stern mask, we read thee as an open scroll: What if this mouth Hate's bitter smile has curled? These eyes have known Love's starry fellowship; Behind which trembles the tremendous soul. On earth thou knew'st me not; Steadfast through all the storms of passion,thou, True to thy muse,and virgin to thy vow; Resigned,if name with ashes were forgot, So thou one arrow in the gold had'st shot!
I never placed my laurel on thy brow, But on thy name I come to lay it now, When thy bones wither in the earthly plot. Fame is my name. I dwell among the clouds, Being immortal,and the wreath I bring Itself is Immortality.
The sweets Of earth I know not,more the pains,but wing In mine own ether,with the crowned crowds Born of the centuries. Centuries wheel and pass, And generations wither into dust; Royalty is the vulgar food of rust, Valor and fame, their days be as the grass; What of today? These treasures of rare love and costing lust Shall the tomorrow reckon mold and must, Ere, stricken of time, itself shall cry alas.
Sole sits majestic Death, high lord of change; And Life, a little pinch of frankincense, Sweetens the certain passing LOVE POEMS I I have looked upon thee—and I have loved thee, Loved thy mouth, whose curve is the moon's young crescent, Loved thy beauty-blossoming eyes, and eyelids Petal-like, perfect; I would brush the dew in a flashing rainbow From thy face's twain mysterious flowers, And, supremely throned on the lips' full luna, Soar into Heaven.
Are you not with me at all times, faithfully standing, The soul of that golden prelude which is the childhood of day, By each imperishable stanza called a moment, Unto the splendid close, glory and light, envoi, Followed with stars? Verily you were near to me, To watch the strong boy-swallows carolling in sunset, To barter day and thought for night and ecstasy, To dream great dreams, you of my heart; to live great lives. You are the sunset. You are the long night of peace. And dawn is of you, a thrilling glory frightening stars.
Ill Thy face is a still white house of holy things, Graced with the quiet glory of thy hair. Upon thy perfect forehead the sweet air Hath laid her beauty where girlhood clings.
Thine eyes are quivering celestial springs Of naked immortality, and there God hath Hope, where those twin angels stare, That sometimes sleep beneath their sheltering wings. The seals of love on those strong lips of thine Are perfect still; thy cheeks await their kiss. Thou art all virginal; God made thee His. Lost in the unreal life, the deathful din, Man bows himself before the Only Shrine— Who shall go in, O God—who shall go in?
A cup of sorrowful incense, A tree of keen leaves, An eager high ship, A quiver of superb arrows.
What is thy breast to me? A flower of new prayer, A poem of firm light, A well of cool birds, A drawn bow trembling. What is thy body to me?
A theatre of perfect silence, A chariot of red speed; And O, the dim feet Of white-maned desires! Over the high earth Valleys bring it forth, And it is found upon mountains. The white rose my soul Knoweth all winds and wings, All nests, all songs, With each smiling star, And every graceful day.
The white rose my soul Is under the world's feet. Only thou dost hold, In that how little hand, The red rose my heart. I love you For your wide child eyes,and fluttering hands, For the little divinities your wrists, And the beautiful mysteries your fingers. I love you.
Does the blossom study her day of life? Is the butterfly vexed with an hour of soul? I had rather a rose than live forever. VII After your poppied hair inaugurates Twilight, with earnest of what pleading pearls; After the carnal vine your beauty curls Upon me, with such tingling opiates As immobile my literal flesh awaits; Ere the attent wind spiritual whirls Upward the murdered throstles and the merles Of that prompt forest which your smile creates; Pausing, I lift my eyes as best I can, Where twain frail candles close their single arc Upon a water-colour by Cezanne.
But you, love thirsty, breathe across the gleam; For total terror of the actual dark Changing the shy equivalents of dream. He is not, as you know, afraid of the dark, And has unaided captured many stars. The same tent expects your coming, Moon-in-the-Trees. You remember how the spruce smelled sweet When the dawn was full of little birds? In the ears of my days Is a thunder of accomplished rivers; In the nostrils of my nights An incense of irrevocable mountains.
IX When thou art dead,dead,and far from the splendid sin, And the fleshless soul whines at the steep of the last abyss To leave forever its heart acold in an earthy bed, When,forth of the body which loved my body,the soul-within Comes,naked from the pitiless metamorphosis, What shall it say to mine,when we are dead,dead? When I am dead,dead, and they have laid thee in, The body my lips so loved given to worms to kiss, And the cool smooth throat,and bright hair of the head—.
Come with me, then, And we'll leave it far and far away— Only you and I, understand! You have played, I think And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired.
So am I. But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— Open to me! Ah, come with me! I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon, That floats forever and a day; I'll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, Until I find the Only Flower, Which shall keep I think your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea.
XI Let us lie here in the disturbing grass, And slowly grow together under the sky Sucked frail by Spring,whose meat is thou,and I, This hurrying tree,and yonder pausing mass Hitched to time scarcely,eager to surpass Space: Sailed July, Auf wiedersehen!
We part a litde while, Friends alway, till what time we meet again. Of this our life, the hours of sun and rain, No palest flower the future can beguile; Then let him frown his frown or smile his smile!
There are some things which have not lived in vain, These which have made us men and which remain, Tho' tide and time be lost 'twixt mile and mile. Fear not, for thou shalt speak with me, my friend, Who care not if this little journey's end Lie past so great a gulf as never yields One smallest murmur.
In Memory of Claude o'Dreams Behold, I have taken at thy hands immortal wine The fume whereof is ecstasy of perfect pain, Which is more sweet than flowers unknown uttered of rain, More potent than the fumbling might of the brute of brine. Lo, my pale soul is blown upon far peaks with thine, Steeped in star-terrible silence, at whose feet the plain Murmurs of thought and time's illimitable refrain, Upon whose brows eternity setteth high sign. This thing hath been, by grace; one music in our souls, One fane beyond the world, whence riseth sacrifice Unto that god whom gifts invisible appease.
So be it when sunset's golden diapaison rolls. Over our life—then shalt thou, smiling, touch the keys, And draw me softly with thee into Paradise. Ill Softly from its still lair in Plympton Street It stole on silent pads, and, raping space, Shot onward in a fierce infernal race, And shivered townward on revolving feet, Skidded, fortuitously indiscreet; And now a lady doth its bosom grace, And now the 'phone, tingling its wild disgrace, Telleth that hearts be broke and time is fleet.
O Watson, born beneath a generous star, Oft have I seen thee draped upon a bar; Thou might'st have slain us with a bloody couteau And, O Watson, moriturus te saluto, Infinite in thy fair beatitude; But you could not do anything so rude. O friend, who hast attained thyself in her, Thy wife, the almost woman whose tresses are The stranger part of sunlight, in the far Nearness of whose frail eyes instantly stir Unchristian perfumes more remote than myrrh, Whose smiling is the swiftly singular Adventure of one inadvertent star, With angels previously a loiterer, Friend, who dost thy unfearing soul pervert From the perfection of its constancy To that unspeakable fellowship of Art— Receive the complete pardon of my heart, Who dost thy friend a little while desert For the sensation of eternity.
They have hung the lake with moth-wings, Blurs of purple, and shaggy warmths of gold, Lazy curious wines, and curving curds of silver. They have hung my heart with a sunset, Lilting flowers, and feathered cageless flames, Death and love: II A painted wind has sprung Clean of the rotten dark, Lancing the glutted wolves of rain.
The sky is carried by a blue assault. Strident with sun the heights swarm, The vasts bulge with banners. Working angels Shovel light in heaven.
To carnival, to carnival, In ribbons of red fire, With spokes of golden laughter, God drives the jingling world. With tilted lips and dancing throat shall you sing them, The songs my poems. You shall dream my dreams, O world. Locked in the shining house of beautiful sleep, Of the dreams my poems. You shall smile my smile, love.
My eyes, my eyes have stroked the bird of your soul, The bird my poems. I saw two rah-rahs—caps, soft shirts, Match-legs, the kind of face that hurts, The walk that makes death sweet—Ted Gore And Alec Ross; they had that whore Mary between them. Don't know which, One looked; and May said: It broke instead On old man Davenport's bald head. I picked a platter up, one-handed. Right on her new straw lid it landed. Cheest, what a crash! Before you knew, Ted slipped the management a new Crisp five, and everyone sat down But May, that said I'd spoiled her gown, And me, that blubbered on her shoulder, And kissed her shiny nose, and told her I didn't mean to smash her Crowst, But I was beautifully soused!
I think Al called me "good old sport," And three smokes lugged out Davenport. Experiments, I The awful darkness of the town crushes;in rows houses every one a different shade of brown unity in variety,I suppose. It almost snows: The gloom is flat, as a poor pancake is flat;"My dear,our church sent three thousand bandages only last week to those poor soldiers"—Whew!
But I'm going into the Parthenon to lap yaoorti with my eyes shut tight. Goodbye Cambridge. I'm going in to see Nichol,and devour shishkabob what 's the time?
I must be moving on, leaving the houses-all-alike thank God and I guess I'll drop in and get Mike to give me a high. II through the tasteless minute efficient room march hexameters of unpleasant twilight,a twilight smelling of Vergil, as me bang to and from the huggering rags of white Latin flesh which her body sometimes isn't all night,always,a warm incessant gush of furious Paris flutters up the hill, cries somethings laughters loves nothings float upward,beautifully,forces crazily rhyme, Montmartre s'amuse!
Ill my deathly body's deadly lady smoothly-foolish exquisitely,tooled becoming exactly passionate Gladly grips with chuckles of supreme sex my mute-articulate protrusion Inviting my gorgeous bullet to vex the fooling groove intuitive And the sharp ripples-of-her-brain bite fondly into mine, as the slow give- of-hot-flesh Takes,me;in crazier waves of light sweetsmelling fragrant: She stands greenly over the flat pasteboard hill with a little pink road like a stand of spilled saw-dust.
The sentinel who walks asle ep under apple-trees yawns. The moon regards little whores running down the prison yard into the dawn to shit, and she is tickled too. Trees in morning are like strengths of young men poised to sprint. There's another sentinel wanders al ong besides a wall perhaps as old as he. The little moon pinks into insignificances grouch of sun gobbles the east— She is a white shadow asleep in the reddishness of Day.
The moon shines all green in the snow. My fur-coat on. Light one cigarette. You came her stalking straw-coloured body,cached with longness of kimona. Myself got up out of a chair there are two say "Berthe" or something else. Her Nudity seats Itself sharply beside. New person. I decline more champagne anyway "Vous partez—Pdemain matin?
PEACE Joy's right boot squashes disciplined fragilities by slobber of,patient timidities undermined skyscrapers, Krash;it explodes in a plastic Meeow —with uncouth snarl of sculptural fur through which Claws neatly leap Wall Street wriggles choked with gesturing human swill squirms gagged with a sprouting filth of faces extra!
Vistas of neatness bunged with a wagging humanity poised;In the bathing, instant a reek-of electric daintiness PEACE all night from timetotime the city's accurate face peeks from smothering blanket of occult pandemonium PEACE all night! And then, you were sitting across from me: Elbows, Shoulders. And not go too near it,however people brag of the wonderful things inside which are altogether too good to miss— but we'll go by,together,giving it a wide berth. Making our feet think.
Holding our breath— if we look at it we will want to touch it. Wouldn't poor Royce's hair tremble? What would Old Man Emerson say? All the pale grumbling wings of his greater angels will ceaseias that Curse bounds neat-ly from the angry wad of his forehead then fiends with pitchforkthings will catch and toss me lovingly to and fro.
Last,should you look,you '11 find me prone upon a greatest flame, which seethes in a beautiful way upward;with someone by the name of Paolo passing the time of day. IV my little heart is so wonderfully sorry lady,to have seen you on its threshold smiling,to have experienced the glory of your slender and bright going, and it is so cold nothing being able to comfort its grief without you,that it would like i guess to die.
Also my lady do i feel as if perhaps the newly darkening texture of my upon nothing a little clumsily closing mind will keep always something who has fallen,who being beautiful is gone and suddenly. But, tell me with eyes quiteshut did you love me,will you love me and perfectly so forth;i see, kissing you—only kissing you it is still spring and summer may be beautiful shall we say years?
O let us say it,girl to boy smiling while the moments kill us gently and infinitely. And believe do not believe there'll be a time when even these leaves will crawl expensively away. My lady. VI willing pitifully to bewitch the nude worm of my reaching mind,to tease its gropings curiously i remark these frivolous slowlywinking lives which like four or three pretty flies the very and tremulous architecture of frail light suddenly will capture.
And i think as if perhaps a tree should remember how Spring touched it of your deep kiss which constructs faindy in me an upward country on whose new shores the first day has not come,but it is quaindy always morning and silence always where hang,in the morning,wistful corpses of stars. VII as we lie side by side my little breasts become two sharp delightful strutting towers and i shove hody the lovingness of my belly against you your arms are young; your arms will convince me,in the complete silence speaking upon my body their ultimate slender language.
O mountain you cannot escape me your roots are anchored in my silence;therefore O mountain skilfully murder my breasts,still and always i will hug you solemnly into me. VIII my lady is an ivory garden, who is filled with flowers.
My lady is an ivory garden her shoulders are smooth and shining flowers beneath which are the sharp and new flowers of her little breasts tilting upward with love her hand isfiveflowers upon her whitest belly there is a clever dreamshaped flower and her wrists are the merest most wonderful flowers my lady is filled with flowers her feet are slenderest each isfiveflowersher ankle is a minute flower my lady's knees are two flowers Her thighs are huge and firm flowers of night and perfectly between them eagerly sleeping is the sudden flower of complete amazement my lady who is filled with flowers is an ivory garden.
And the moon is a young man who i see regularly,about twilight, enter the garden smiling to himself. Fal, Ling snow with a limousines the and whisk of swiftly taxis God knows howmany mouths eyes bodies fleetly going into nothing, verysky the and.
On a corner in-a-dream of. II like most godhouses this particular house of god utters a chilly smell Within,the rector's talking normal face like a cat who plays with a dead mouse skilfully mumbles about Hell, pretending it's alive,knowing it is not. That head which you'll confess looks like the apple whereby Adam fell belongingly adorns the fat demure hairless man sitting heavily with what is obviously his wife,his small unthrilled circular ears winking to the word of God his large unclever mind carefully filled with inexpensive christian funiture.
HI This is the vase, Here is the crisp and the only and the very sudden garden in which the little princes strut,taller than flowers here are,a thousand erect and bright princes tenderly smiling and smiling forever this is the vase. Here are a million alwaysmoving ladies always moving,and moving slenderly around a keen and little princess taller than a day, This is the vase here are a billion warriors with furious and supple faces like white nouns. With bodies like smiling and gigantic verbs If we turn the vase,slowly the littie and keen princess will come slender -ly out of a million ladies.
The bright and erect princes suddenly will strut in the garden, the soldiers who are supple and who are furious will become, not only and crisply, Gigantic and Smiling. They will step from the vase: Straying as softly as a puma, it will come to Boston and sit in the Howard Atheneum up under the non si fuma, up in the ceiling with the old men. With the wrinkles and eyes and tumours. Precisely straying like a leopard or a music,will my ghost visit queerly the naked girls who wiggle at the end of second avenue in the Burlesque As You Like it,or gliding most softly into Hassan's will see them all dancing together,a turk and one girl and three greeks with the cousin of the old Man In The Moon playing the kanoon.
After that, precisely i will float into Moskowitz's where there's himself at the zimbalon,and Raisin tight with Jack Shargel at a table in the spidery music,ordering Bosca singing oona vaap and gesturing like a Petrouska. And i'll gesture as well as i am able in the transparent condition which ghosts are afflicted with, my gestures will be in the past tense and bright and small and ridiculous.
And after all i'll go to a certain house where the window is open i will go in between the curtains silently,like a cat or a tune. Houses are,with firm light wonderful,but and suddenly hear.
Lady in that day i think it's only thinking. Your pardon if i err. Noone can be whose arms more hugely cry whose lips more singularly starve to press her— noone shall ever do unto my lady what my blood does,when i hold and kiss her or if sometime she nakedly invite me all her nakedness deeply to win her flesh is like all the 'cellos of night against the morning's single violin more far a thing than ships or flowers tell us, her kiss furiously me understands like a bright forest of fleet and huge trees —then what if she shall have an hundred fellows?