OF NICOLETTE - E.E. Cummings

dreaming in marble all the castle lay

like some gigantic ghost-flower born of night

blossoming in white towers to the moon,

soft sighed the passionate darkness to the tune

of tiny troubadours,and(phantom-white)

dumb-blooming boughs let fall their glorious snows,

and the unearthly sweetness of a rose

swam upward from the troubled heart of May;

a Winged Passion woke and one by one

there fell upon the night,like angel's tears,

the syllables of that mysterious prayer,

and as an opening lily drowsy-fair

(when from her couch of poppy petals peers

the sleepy morning)gently draws apart

her curtains,and lays bare her trembling heart,

with beads of dew made jewels by the sun,

so one high shining tower(which as a glass

turned light to flame and blazed with snowy fire)

unfolding,gave the moon a nymphlike face,

a form whose snowy symmetry of grace

haunted the limbs as music haunts the lyre,

a creature of white hands,who letting fall

a thread of lustre from the castle wall

glided,a drop of radiance,to the grass--

 

shunning the sudden moonbeam's treaerous snare

she sought the harbouring dark,and(catching up

her delicate silk)all white,with shining feet,

went forth into the dew:right wildly beat

her heart at every kiss of daisy-cup,

and from her cheek the beauteous colour went

with every bough that reverently bent

to touch the yellow wonder of her hair.

- E.E. Cummings, OF NICOLETTE

-e.e. Cummings poem-

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 you 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 frangrant

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 mishcief from her eyes and fold

her

mouth the new

flower with

thy unimaginable

wings, where dwells the breath

of all persisting stars

-E.E. Cummings