The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPuella mea

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPuella meaThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Puella meaAuthor: E. E. CummingsArtist: Paul KleeAmedeo ModiglianiPablo PicassoKurt RoeschRelease date: February 12, 2022 [eBook #67384]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: The Golden Eagle Press, 1923Credits: Charlene Taylor, Linda Cantoni, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUELLA MEA ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Puella meaAuthor: E. E. CummingsArtist: Paul KleeAmedeo ModiglianiPablo PicassoKurt RoeschRelease date: February 12, 2022 [eBook #67384]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: The Golden Eagle Press, 1923Credits: Charlene Taylor, Linda Cantoni, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

Title: Puella mea

Author: E. E. CummingsArtist: Paul KleeAmedeo ModiglianiPablo PicassoKurt Roesch

Author: E. E. Cummings

Artist: Paul Klee

Amedeo Modigliani

Pablo Picasso

Kurt Roesch

Release date: February 12, 2022 [eBook #67384]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Golden Eagle Press, 1923

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Linda Cantoni, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUELLA MEA ***

Transcriber's Note:Idiosyncrasies of spelling, punctuation, and capitalization have been retained as they appear in the original.

title

author

BY E.E. CUMMINGS

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Harun Omar and Master Hafizkeep your dead beautiful ladies.Mine is a little lovelierthan any of your ladies were.

Harun Omar and Master Hafiz

keep your dead beautiful ladies.

Mine is a little lovelier

than any of your ladies were.

In her perfectest arraymy lady, moving in the day,is a little stranger thingthan crisp Sheba with her kingin the morning wandering.

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.

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Through the young and awkward hoursmy lady perfectly moving,through the new world scarce astirmy fragile lady wanderingin whose perishable poiseis the mystery of Spring(with her beauty more than snowdexterous and fugitivemy very frail lady driftingdistinctly, moving like a mythin the uncertain morning, withApril feet like sudden flowers

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

(with her beauty more than snow

dexterous and fugitive

my very frail lady drifting

distinctly, moving like a myth

in the uncertain morning, with

April feet like sudden flowers

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and all her body filled with May)—moving in the unskilful daymy lady utterly alive,to me is a more curious thing(a thing more nimble and complete)than ever to Judea’s kingwere the shapely sharp cunningand withal delirious feetof the Princess Salomecarefully dancing in the noiseof Herod’s silence, long ago.

and all her body filled with May)

—moving in the unskilful day

my lady utterly alive,

to me is a more curious thing

(a thing more nimble and complete)

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 headi know that i am wholly dead:nor ever did on such a throatthe lips of Tristram slowly dote,La beale Isoud whose leman was.And if my lady look at me(with her eyes which like two elvesincredibly amuse themselves)with a look of færie,perhaps a little suddenly(as sometimes the improbablebeauty of my lady will)—at her glance my spirit shiesrearing (as in the miracleof a lady who had eyeswhich the king’s horses might not kill.)

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 her eyes which like two elves

incredibly amuse themselves)

with a look of færie,

perhaps a little suddenly

(as sometimes the improbable

beauty of my lady will)

—at her glance my spirit shies

rearing (as in the miracle

of a lady who had eyes

which the king’s horses might not kill.)

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But should my lady smile, it werea flower of so pure surprise(it were so very new a flower,a flower so frail, a flower so glad)as trembling used to yield with dewwhen the world was young and new(a flower such as the world hadin Springtime when the world was madand Launcelot spoke to Guenever,a flower which most heavy hungwith silence when the world was youngand Diarmid looked in Grania’s eyes.)But should my lady’s beauty playat not speaking (somtimes asit will) the silence of her facedoth immediately makein my heart so great a noise,as in the sharp and thirsty bloodof Paris would not all the Troysof Helen’s beauty: never didLord Jason (in impossible thingsvictorious impossibly)so wholly burn, to undertakeMedea’s rescuing eyes; nor hewhen swooned the white egyptian daywho with Egypt’s body lay.

But should my lady smile, it were

a flower of so pure surprise

(it were so very new a flower,

a flower so frail, a flower so glad)

as trembling used to yield with dew

when the world was young and new

(a flower such as the world had

in Springtime when the world was mad

and Launcelot spoke to Guenever,

a flower which most heavy hung

with silence when the world was young

and Diarmid looked in Grania’s eyes.)

But should my lady’s beauty play

at not speaking (somtimes as

it will) 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 (in impossible things

victorious impossibly)

so wholly burn, to undertake

Medea’s rescuing eyes; nor he

when swooned the white egyptian day

who with Egypt’s body lay.

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Lovely as those ladies weremine is a little lovelier.

Lovely as those ladies were

mine is a little lovelier.

And if she speak in her frail way,it is wholly to bewitchmy smallest thought with a most swiftradiance wherein slowly driftmurmurous things divinely bright;it is foolingly to smitemy spirit with the lithe free twitchof scintillant space, with the cool writheof gloom truly which syncopatesome sunbeam’s skilful fingerings;it is utterly to lullwith foliate inscrutablesweetness my soul obedient;it is to stroke my being withnumbing forests frolicsome,fleetly mystical, aroamwith keen creatures of idiom(beings alert and innocentvery deftly upon whichindolent miracles impinge)—it is distinctly to confutemy reason with the deep caressof every most shy thing and mute,it is to quell me with the twingeof all living intense things.

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

(beings alert and innocent

very deftly upon which

indolent miracles impinge)

—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 fortunateis (past the luck of all dead menand loving) as invisibly whenupon her palpable solitudea furtive occult fragrance steals,a gesture of immaculateperfume—whereby (with fear aglow)my soul is wont wholly to knowthe poignant instantaneous fernwhose scrupulous enchanted frondstoward all things intrinsic yearn,the immanent subliminalfern of her delicious voice(of her voice which always dwellsbeside the vivid magicalimpetuous and utter pondsof dream; and very secret foodits leaves inimitable findbeyond the white authentic springs,beyond the sweet instinctive wells,which make to flourish the minutespontaneous meadow of her mind)—the vocal fern, always which feelsthe keen ecstatic actual tread(and thereto perfectly responds)of all things exquisite and dead,all living things and beautiful.

Never my soul so fortunate

is (past the luck of all dead men

and loving) as invisibly when

upon her palpable solitude

a furtive occult fragrance steals,

a gesture of immaculate

perfume—whereby (with fear aglow)

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

(of her voice which always dwells

beside the vivid magical

impetuous and utter ponds

of dream; and very secret food

its leaves inimitable find

beyond the white authentic springs,

beyond the sweet instinctive wells,

which make to flourish the minute

spontaneous meadow of her mind)

—the vocal fern, always which feels

the keen ecstatic actual tread

(and thereto perfectly responds)

of all things exquisite and dead,

all living things and beautiful.

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(Caliph and king their ladies hadto love them and to make them glad,when the world was young and mad,in the city of Bagdad—mine is a little lovelierthan any of those ladies were.)

(Caliph and king their ladies had

to love them and to make them glad,

when the world was young and mad,

in the city of Bagdad—

mine is a little lovelier

than any of those ladies were.)

Her body is most beauteous,being for all things amorousfashioned very curiouslyof roses and of ivory.The immaculate crisp headis such as only certain deadand careful painters love to usefor their youngest angels (whosepraising bodies in a rowbetween slow glories fleetly go.)Upon a keen and lovely throatthe strangeness of her face doth float,which in eyes and lips consists—always upon the mouth there trystscurvingly a fragile smilewhich like a flower lieth (whilewithin the eyes is dimly hearda wistful and precarious bird.)

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 (whose

praising bodies in a row

between slow glories fleetly go.)

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 (while

within the eyes is dimly heard

a wistful and precarious bird.)

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Springing from fragrant shoulders small,ardent, and perfectly withalsmooth to stroke and sweet to seeas a supple and young tree,her slim lascivious arms alightin skilful wrists which hint at flight—my lady’s very singularand slenderest hands moreover are(which as lilies smile and quail)of all things perfect the most frail.

Springing from fragrant shoulders small,

ardent, and perfectly withal

smooth to stroke and sweet to see

as a supple and young tree,

her slim lascivious arms alight

in skilful wrists which hint at flight

—my lady’s very singular

and slenderest hands moreover are

(which as lilies smile and quail)

of all things perfect the most frail.

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(Whoso rideth in the taleof Chaucer knoweth many a pairof companions blithe and fair;who to walk with Master Gowerin Confessio doth prefershall not lack for beauty there,nor he that will amaying gowith my lord Boccaccio—whoso knocketh at the doorof Marie and of Maleorefindeth of ladies goodly storewhose beauty did in nothing err.If to me there shall appearthan a rose more sweetly known,more silently than a flower,my lady naked in her hair—i for those ladies nothing carenor any lady dead and gone.)

(Whoso rideth in the tale

of Chaucer knoweth many a pair

of companions blithe and fair;

who to walk with Master Gower

in Confessio doth prefer

shall not lack for beauty there,

nor he that will amaying go

with my lord Boccaccio—

whoso knocketh at the door

of Marie and of Maleore

findeth of ladies goodly store

whose beauty did in nothing err.

If to me there shall appear

than a rose more sweetly known,

more silently than a flower,

my lady naked in her hair—

i for those ladies nothing care

nor any lady dead and gone.)

Each tapering breast is firm and smooththat in a lovely fashion dothfrom my lady’s body grow;as morning may a lily know,her petaled flesh doth entertainthe adroit blood’s mysterious skein(but like some passionate earlierflower, the snow will oft utter,whereof the year has perfect bliss—for each breast a blossom is,which being a little while caressedits fragrance makes the lover blest.)Her waist is a most tiny hingeof flesh, a winsome thing and strange;apt in my hand warmly to lieit is a throbbing neck wherebyto grasp the belly’s ample vase(that urgent urn which doth amassfor whoso drinks, a dizzier winethan should the grapes of heaven combinewith earth’s madness)—’tis a gateunto a palace intricate(whereof the luscious pillars risewhich are her large and shapely thighs)in whose dome the trembling blissof a kingdom wholly is.

Each tapering breast is firm and smooth

that in a lovely fashion doth

from my lady’s body grow;

as morning may a lily know,

her petaled flesh doth entertain

the adroit blood’s mysterious skein

(but like some passionate earlier

flower, the snow will oft utter,

whereof the year has perfect bliss—

for each breast a blossom is,

which being a little while caressed

its fragrance makes the lover blest.)

Her waist is a most tiny hinge

of flesh, a winsome thing and strange;

apt in my hand warmly to lie

it is a throbbing neck whereby

to grasp the belly’s ample vase

(that urgent urn which doth amass

for whoso drinks, a dizzier wine

than should the grapes of heaven combine

with earth’s madness)—’tis a gate

unto a palace intricate

(whereof the luscious pillars rise

which are her large and shapely thighs)

in whose dome the trembling bliss

of a kingdom wholly is.

Beneath her thighs such legs are seenas were the pride of the world’s queen:each is a verb, miraculousinflected oral devious,beneath the body’s breathing noun(moreover the delicious frownof the grave great sensual kneeswell might any monarch please.)Each ankle is divinely shy;as if for fear you would espythe little distinct foot (if whosevery minuteness doth abusereason, why then the artificerdid most exquisitely err.)

Beneath her thighs such legs are seen

as were the pride of the world’s queen:

each is a verb, miraculous

inflected oral devious,

beneath the body’s breathing noun

(moreover the delicious frown

of the grave great sensual knees

well might any monarch please.)

Each ankle is divinely shy;

as if for fear you would espy

the little distinct foot (if whose

very minuteness doth abuse

reason, why then the artificer

did most exquisitely err.)

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When the world was like a songheard behind a golden door,poet and sage and caliph hadto love them and to make them gladladies with lithe eyes and long(when the world was like a flowerOmar Hafiz and Harunloved their ladies in the moon)—fashioned very curiouslyof roses and of ivoryif naked she appear to memy flesh is an enchanted tree;with her lips’ most frail partingmy body hears the cry of Spring,and with their frailest syllableits leaves go crisp with miracle.

When the world was like a song

heard behind a golden door,

poet and sage and caliph had

to love them and to make them glad

ladies with lithe eyes and long

(when the world was like a flower

Omar Hafiz and Harun

loved their ladies in the moon)

—fashioned very curiously

of roses and of ivory

if naked she appear to me

my flesh is an enchanted tree;

with her lips’ most frail parting

my body hears the cry of Spring,

and with their frailest syllable

its leaves go crisp with miracle.

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Love!—maker of my lady,in that alway beyond thispoem or any poem sheof whose body words are afraidperfectly beautiful is,forgive these words which i have made.

Love!—maker of my lady,

in that alway beyond this

poem or any poem she

of whose body words are afraid

perfectly beautiful is,

forgive these words which i have made.

And never boast your dead beauties,you greatest lovers in the world!who with Grania strangely fled,who with Egypt went to bed,whom white-thighed Semiramisput up her mouth to wholly kiss—never boast your dead beauties,mine being unto me sweeter(of whose shy delicious glancethings which never more shall be,perfect things of færie,are intense inhabitants;in whose warm superlativebody do distinctly liveall sweet cities passed away—in her flesh at break of dayare the smells of Nineveh,in her eyes when day is goneare the cries of Babylon.)Diarmid Paris and Solomon,Omar Harun and Master Hafiz,to me your ladies are all one—keep your dead beautiful ladies.

And never boast your dead beauties,

you greatest lovers in the world!

who with Grania strangely fled,

who with Egypt went to bed,

whom white-thighed Semiramis

put up her mouth to wholly kiss—

never boast your dead beauties,

mine being unto me sweeter

(of whose shy delicious glance

things which never more shall be,

perfect things of færie,

are intense inhabitants;

in whose warm superlative

body do distinctly live

all sweet cities passed away—

in her flesh at break of day

are the smells of Nineveh,

in her eyes when day is gone

are the cries of Babylon.)

Diarmid Paris and Solomon,

Omar Harun and Master Hafiz,

to me your ladies are all one—

keep your dead beautiful ladies.

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Eater of all things lovely—Time!upon whose watering lips the worldpoises a moment (futile, proud,a costly morsel of sweet tears)gesticulates, and disappears—of all dainties which do crowdgaily upon oblivionsweeter than any there is one;to touch it is the fear of rhyme—in life’s very fragile hour(when the world was like a talemade of laughter and of dew,was a flight, a flower, a flame,was a tendril fleetly curledupon frailness) used to stroll(very slowly) one or twoladies like flowers made,softly used to wholly moveslender ladies made of dream(in the lazy world and newsweetly used to laugh and loveladies with crisp eyes and frail,in the city of Bagdad.)Keep your dead beautiful ladiesHarun Omar and Master Hafiz.

Eater of all things lovely—Time!

upon whose watering lips the world

poises a moment (futile, proud,

a costly morsel of sweet tears)

gesticulates, and disappears—

of all dainties which do crowd

gaily upon oblivion

sweeter than any there is one;

to touch it is the fear of rhyme—

in life’s very fragile hour

(when the world was like a tale

made of laughter and of dew,

was a flight, a flower, a flame,

was a tendril fleetly curled

upon frailness) used to stroll

(very slowly) one or two

ladies like flowers made,

softly used to wholly move

slender ladies made of dream

(in the lazy world and new

sweetly used to laugh and love

ladies with crisp eyes and frail,

in the city of Bagdad.)

Keep your dead beautiful ladiesHarun Omar and Master Hafiz.

Keep your dead beautiful ladies

Harun Omar and Master Hafiz.

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This edition of E.E. Cummings’ Puella Mea with reproductions of drawings and paintings by Klee is made possible through the kind permission of Curt Valentin of Buchholz Gallery. The Modigliani drawing is used by the courtesy of his publishers, in Milan, Italy. For the drawing by Picasso thanks are due to Mary Callery, who consented to its use. Kurt Roesch contributed his drawing which is the only illustration expressly made for this book when it was decided to have work by other modern masters in addition to the one drawing by the author himself, which appears on the first text page of his poem.

S.A. JACOBS, THE GOLDEN EAGLE PRESS

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