e.e. cummings

cummings

since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry —the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says we are for each other: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life's not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis

cummings

cummings: *immediately takes back prior comment* "ha! i write about love with women and all that fun junk, thayer's the one you'd have to worry about."

it is at moments after i have dreamed of the rare entertainment of your eyes, when(being fool to fancy)i have deemed with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise; at moments when the glassy darkness holds the genuine apparition of your smile (it was through tears always)and silence moulds such strangeness as was mine a little while; moments when my once more illustrious arms are filled with fascination, when my breast wears the intolerant brightness of your charms: one pierced moment whiter than the rest —turning from the tremendous lie of sleep i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

if i believe in death be sure of this it is because you have loved me, moon and sunset stars and flowers gold crescendo and silver muting of seatides i trusted not,                    one night when in my fingers drooped your shining body when my heart sang between your perfect breasts darkness and beauty of stars was on my mouth petals danced against my eyes and down the singing reaches of my soul spoke the green- greeting pale- departing irrevocable sea i knew thee death.                              and when i have offered up each fragrant night,when all my days shall have before a certain face become white perfume only,          from the ashes then thou wilt rise and thou wilt come to her and brush the mischief from her eyes and fold her mouth the new flower with thy unimaginable wings,where dwells the breath of all persisting stars

If freckles were lovely, and day was night, And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie, Life would be delight,— But things couldn’t go right For in such a sad plight I wouldn’t be I. If earth was heaven and now was hence, And past was present, and false was true, There might be some sense But I’d be in suspense For on such a pretense You wouldn’t be you. If fear was plucky, and globes were square, And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee Things would seem fair,— Yet they’d all despair, For if here was there We wouldn’t be we.

i will wade out                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air                                       Alive                                                 with closed eyes to dash against darkness                                       in the sleeping curves of my body Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery with chasteness of sea-girls                                            Will i complete the mystery                                            of my flesh I will rise               After a thousand years lipping flowers             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon