of Edward Estlin Cummings (1894-1962)
From XLI Poems (1925)
Sonnet I
if learned darkness from our searched world
should wrest the rare unwisdom of thy eyes,
and if thy hands flowers of silence curled
upon a wish,to rapture should surprise
my soul slowly which on thy beauty dreams
(proud through the cold perfect night whisperless
to mark,how that asleep whitely she seems
whose lips the whole of life almost do guess)
if god should send the morning;and before
my doubting window leaves softly to stir,
of thoughtful trees whom night hath pondered o’er
—and frailties of dimension to occur
about us
and birds known,scarcely to sing
(heart,could we bear the marvel of this thing?)
From W [ViVa] (1931)
LXVIII
why,it is love;but at the earliest spear
of sun perfectly should disappear
moon’s utmost magic,or stones speak or one
name control more incredible splendor than
our merely universe,love’s also there:
and being here imprisoned,tortured here
love everywhere exploding maims and blinds
(but surely does not forget,perish,sleep
cannot be photographed,measured;disdains
the trivial labelling of punctual brains...
—Who wields a poem huger than the grave?
from only Whom shall time no refuge keep
though all the weird worlds must be opened?
)Love
From No Thanks (1935)
LXV
if
night’s mostness(and whom did merely day
close)
opens
if more than silence silent are more
flowering
than stars whitely births of mind
if
air is throbbing prayers whom kneeling eyes
(until
perfectly their imperfect gaze
climbs
this steep fragrance of eternity)
world
by than worlds immenser world will pray
so(unlove
disappearing)only your
less
than guessed more than beauty begins the
most
not imagined life adventuring
who
would feel if spring’s least breathing should cause
a
colour
and i do not know him
(and
while
behind death’s death whenless voices sing
everywhere
your selves himself recognize)
From 50 Poems (1940)
L
what
freedom’s not some under’s mere above
but
breathing yes which fear will never no?
measureless
our pure living complete love
whose
doom is beauty and its fate to grow
shall
hate confound the wise? doubt blind the brave?
does
mask wear face?have singings gone to say?
here
youngest selves yet younger selves conceive
here’s
music’s music and the day of day
are
worlds collapsing?any was a glove
but
i’m and you are actual either hand
is
when for sale?forever is to give
and
on forever’s very now we stand
nor
a first rose explodes but shall increase
whole
truthful infinite immediate us
From 1 x 1 [One Times One] (1944)
XVI
one’s
not half two. It’s two are halves of one:
which
halves reintegrating,shall occur
no
death and any quantity;but than
all
numerable mosts the actual more
minds
ignorant of stern miraculous
this
every truth—beware of heartless them
(given
the scalpel,they dissect a kiss;
or,sold
the reason,they undream a dream)
one
is the song which fiends and angels sing:
all
murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let
liars wilt,repaying life they’re loaned;
we(by
a gift called dying born)must grow
deep
in dark least ourselves remembering
love
only rides his year.
All
lose,whole find
XXXIV
nothing
false and possible is love
(who’s
imagined,therefore limitless)
love’s
to giving as to keeping’s give;
as
yes is to if,love is to yes
must’s
a schoolroom in the month of may:
life’s
the deathboard where all now turns when
(love’s
a universe beyond obey
or
command,reality or un-)
proudly
depths above why’s first because
(faith’s
last doubt and humbly heights below)
kneeling,we—true
lovers—pray that us
will
ourselves continue to outgrow
all
whose mosts if you have known and i’ve
only
we our least begin to guess
XXXVI
true
lovers in each happening of their hearts
live
longer than all which and every who;
despite
what fear denies,what hope asserts,
what
falsest both disprove by proving true
(all
doubts,all certainties,as villains strive
and
heroes through the mere mind’s poor pretend
—grim
comics of duration:only love
immortally
occurs beyond the mind)
such
a forever is love’s any now
and
her each here is such an everywhere,
even
more true would truest lovers grow
if
out of midnight dropped more suns than are
(yes;and
if time should ask into his was
all
shall,their eyes would never miss a yes)
LII
life
is more true than reason will deceive
(more
secret or than madness did reveal)
deeper
is life than lose:higher than have
—but
beauty is more each than living’s all
multiplied
with infinity sans if
the
mightiest meditations of mankind
cancelled
are by one merely opening leaf
(beyond
whose nearness there is no beyond)
or
does some littler bird than eyes can learn
look
up to silence and completely sing?
futures
are obsolete;pasts are unborn
(here
less than nothing’s more than everything)
death,as
men call him,ends what they call men
—but
beauty is more now than dying’s when
From XAIPE (1950)
V
swim
so now million many worlds in each
least
less than particle of perfect dark—
how
should a loudness called mankind unteach
whole
infinite the who of life’s life(hark
what
silence)?” “Worlds? o no:i’m certain they’re
(look
again)flowers.” “Don’t worlds open and
worlds
close?” “Worlds do,but differently;or
as
if worlds wanted us to understand
they’d
never close(and open)if that fool
called
everyone(or you or i)were wise.”
“You
mean worlds may have better luck,some day?”
“Or
worse!poor worlds;i mean they’re possible
—but”
lifting “flowers” more all stars than eyes
“only
are quite what worlds merely might be
XX
when
serpents bargain for the right to squirm
and
the sun strikes to gain a living wage—
when
thorns regard their roses with alarm
and
rainbows are insured against old age
when
every thrush may sing no new moon in
if
all screech-owls have not okayed his voice
—and
any wave signs on the dotted line
or
else an ocean is compelled to close
when
the oak begs permission of the birch
to
make an acorn—valleys accuse their
mountains
of having altitude—and march
denounces
april as a saboteur
then
we’ll believe in that incredible
unanimal
mankind(and not until)
LI
who
were so dark of heart they might not speak,
a
little innocence will make them sing;
teach
them to see who could not learn to look
—from
the reality of all nothing
will
actually lift a luminous whole;
turn
sheer despairing to most perfect gay,
nowhere
to here,never to beautiful:
a
little innocence creates a day.
And
something thought or done or wished without
a
little innocence,although it were
as
red as terror and as green as fate,
greyly
shall fail and dully disappear—
but
the proud power of himself death immense
is
not so as a little innocence
LXV
i
thank You God for most this amazing
day:for
the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and
a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which
is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i
who have died am alive again today,
and
this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day
of life and of love and wings;and of the gay
great
happening inimitably earth)
how
should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing
any—lifted from the no
of
all nothing—human merely being
doubt
unimaginable You?
(now
the ears of my ears awake and
now
the eyes of my eyes are opened)
From 95 Poems (1958)
III
now
air is air and thing is thing:no bliss
of
heavenly earth beguiles our spirits, whose
miraculously
disenchanted eyes
live
the magnificent honesty of space.
Mountains
are mountains now;skies now are skies—
and
such a sharpening freedom lifts our blood
as
if whole supreme this complete doubtless
universe
we’d(and we alone had)made
—yes;or
as if our souls,awakened from
summer’s
green trance,would not adventure soon
a
deeper magic:that white sleep wherein
all
human curiosity we’ll spend
(gladly,as
lovers must)immortal and
the
courage to receive time’s mightiest dream
II
in
time’s a noble mercy of proportion
with
generosities beyond believing
(though
flesh and blood accuse him of coercion
or
mind and soul convict him of deceiving)
whose
ways are neither reasoned nor unreasoned,
his
wisdom cancels conflict and agreement
—saharas
have their centuries;ten thousand
of
which are smaller than a rose’s moment
there’s
time for laughing and there’s time for crying—
for
hoping for despair for peace for longing
—a
time for growing and a time for dying:
a
night for silence and a day for singing
but
more than all(as all your more than eyes
tell
me)there is a time for timelessness
LXIX
over
us if(as what was dusk becomes
darkness)innumerably
singular
strictly
immeasurable nowhere flames
—its
farthest silence nearer than each our
heartbeat—believe
that love(and only love)
comprehends
huger easily beyonds
than
timelessly alive all glories we’ve
agreed
with nothing deeper than our minds
to
call the stars. And(darling)never fear:
love,when
such marvels vanish,will include
—there
by arriving magically here—
an
everywhere which you’ve and i’ve agreed
and
we’ve(with one last more than kiss)to call
most
the amazing miracle of all
LXXIII
let’s,from
some loud unworld’s most rightful wrong
climbing,my
love(till mountains speak the truth)
enter
a cloverish silence of thrushsong
(and
more than every miracle’s to breathe)
wounded
us will becauseless ultimate
earth
accept and primeval whyless sky;
healing
our by immeasurable night
spirits
and with illimitable day
(shrived
of that nonexistence millions call
life,you
and i may reverently share
the
blessed eachness of all beautiful
selves
wholly which and innocently are)
seeming’s
enough for slaves of space and time
—ours
is the now and here of freedom. Come
LXXVI
these
from my mother’s greatgrandmother’s rosebush white
roses
are probably the least probable roses
of
her improbable world and without any doubt
of
impossible ours
—God’s heaven perhaps comprises
poems(my
mother’s greatgrandmother surely would know)
of
purest poem and glories of sheerest glory
a
little more always less believably so
than(how
should even omnipotent He feel sorry
while
these were blossoming)roses which really are dreams
of
roses—
“and
who” i asked my love “could begin
to
imagine quite such eagerly innocent whoms
of
merciful sweetness except Himself?”
—“noone
unless
it’s a smiling” she told me “someone”(and smiled)
“who
holds Himself as the little white rose of a child”
LXXVIII
all
nearness pauses,while a star can grow
all
distance breathes a final dream of bells;
perfectly
outlined against afterglow
are
all amazing the and peaceful hills
(not
where not here but neither’s blue most both)
and
history immeasurably is
wealthier
by a single sweet day’s death:
as
not imagined secrecies comprise
goldenly
huge whole the upfloating moon.
Time’s
a strange fellow;
more he gives than takes
(and
he takes all)nor any marvel finds
quite
disappearance but some keener makes
losing,gaining
—love! if a world ends
more
than all worlds begin to(see?)begin
XCI
unlove’s
the heavenless hell and homeless home
of
knowledgeable shadows(quick to seize
each
nothing which all soulless wraiths proclaim
substance;all
heartless spectres,happiness)
lovers
alone wear sunlight. The whole truth
not
hid by matter;not by mind revealed
(more
than all dying life,all living death)
and
never which has been or will be told
sings
only—and all lovers are the song.
Here(only
here)is freedom:always here
no
then of winter equals now of spring;
but
april’s day transcends november’s year
(eternity
being so sans until
twice
i have lived forever in a smile)
XCII
i
carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my
heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i
go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by
only me is your doing,my darling)
i
fear
no
fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no
world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and
it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and
whatever a sun will always sing is you
here
is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here
is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and
the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher
than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and
this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i
carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
From 73 Poems (1963)
XXXII
all
which isn’t singing is mere talking
and
all talking’s talking to oneself
(whether
that oneself be sought or seeking
master
or disciple sheep or wolf)
gush
to it as deity or devil
—toss
in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name
it cruel fair or blessed evil—
it
is you(né i)nobody else
drive
dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
—you
are deafened every mother’s son—
all
is merely talk which isn’t singing
and
all talking’s to oneself alone
but
the very song of(as mountains
feel
and lovers)singing is silence
XXXIX
white
guardians of the universe of sleep
safely
may by imperishable your
glory
escorted through infinite countries be
my
darling(open the very secret of hope
to
her eyes,not any longer blinded with
a
world;and let her heart’s each whisper wear
all
never guessed unknowable most joy)
faithfully
blossoming beyond to breathe
suns
of the night,bring this beautiful
wanderer
home to a dream called time:and give
herself
into the mercy of that star,
if
out of climbing whom begins to spill
such
golden blood as makes his moon alive
sing
more will wonderfully birds than are
XLV
what
time is it?it is by every star
a
different time,and each most falsely true;
or
so subhuman superminds declare
—nor
all their times encompass me and you:
when
are we never,but forever now
(hosts
of eternity; not guests of seem)
believe
me,dear,clocks have enough to do
without
confusing timelessness and time.
Time
cannot children,poets,lovers tell—
measure
imagine,mystery,a kiss
—not
though mankind would rather know than feel;
mistrusting
utterly that timelessness
whose
absence would make your whole life and my
(and
infinite our)merely to undie
LXXIII
all
worlds have halfsight,seeing either with
life’s
eye(which is if things seem spirits)or
(if
spirits in the guise of things appear)
death’s:any
world must always half perceive.
Only
whose vision can create the whole
(being
forever born a foolishwise
proudhumble
citizen of ecstasies
more
steep than climb can time with all his years)
he’s
free into the beauty of the truth;
and
strolls the axis of the universe
—love.
Each believing world denies,whereas
your
lover(looking through both life and death)
tunelessly
celebrates the merciful
wonder no world deny may or believe
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