: Puella mea by Klee Paul Artist Modigliani Amedeo Artist Picasso Pablo Artist Roesch Kurt Artist Cummings E E Edward Estlin - American poetry 20th century; Love poetry

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Artists: Paul Klee Pablo Picasso Amedeo Modigliani Kurt Roesch

PUELLA MEA

BY E.E. CUMMINGS

Harun Omar and Master Hafiz keep your dead beautiful ladies. Mine is a little lovelier than any of your ladies were.

In her perfectest array my lady, moving in the day, is a little stranger thing than crisp Sheba with her king in the morning wandering.

Through the young and awkward hours my lady perfectly moving, through the new world scarce astir my fragile lady wandering in whose perishable poise is the mystery of Spring --moving in the unskilful day my lady utterly alive, to me is a more curious thing than ever to Judea's king were the shapely sharp cunning and withal delirious feet of the Princess Salome carefully dancing in the noise of Herod's silence, long ago.

If she a little turn her head i know that i am wholly dead: nor ever did on such a throat the lips of Tristram slowly dote, La beale Isoud whose leman was. And if my lady look at me with a look of faerie, perhaps a little suddenly --at her glance my spirit shies rearing

But should my lady smile, it were a flower of so pure surprise as trembling used to yield with dew when the world was young and new But should my lady's beauty play at not speaking the silence of her face doth immediately make in my heart so great a noise, as in the sharp and thirsty blood of Paris would not all the Troys of Helen's beauty: never did Lord Jason so wholly burn, to undertake Medea's rescuing eyes; nor he when swooned the white egyptian day who with Egypt's body lay.

Lovely as those ladies were mine is a little lovelier.

And if she speak in her frail way, it is wholly to bewitch my smallest thought with a most swift radiance wherein slowly drift murmurous things divinely bright; it is foolingly to smite my spirit with the lithe free twitch of scintillant space, with the cool writhe of gloom truly which syncopate some sunbeam's skilful fingerings; it is utterly to lull with foliate inscrutable sweetness my soul obedient; it is to stroke my being with numbing forests frolicsome, fleetly mystical, aroam with keen creatures of idiom --it is distinctly to confute my reason with the deep caress of every most shy thing and mute, it is to quell me with the twinge of all living intense things.

Never my soul so fortunate is as invisibly when upon her palpable solitude a furtive occult fragrance steals, a gesture of immaculate perfume--whereby my soul is wont wholly to know the poignant instantaneous fern whose scrupulous enchanted fronds toward all things intrinsic yearn, the immanent subliminal fern of her delicious voice --the vocal fern, always which feels the keen ecstatic actual tread of all things exquisite and dead, all living things and beautiful.

Her body is most beauteous, being for all things amorous fashioned very curiously of roses and of ivory. The immaculate crisp head is such as only certain dead and careful painters love to use for their youngest angels Upon a keen and lovely throat the strangeness of her face doth float, which in eyes and lips consists --always upon the mouth there trysts curvingly a fragile smile which like a flower lieth

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