Ballade of Soul (by E.E. Cummings)

Ballade of Soul
by E.E. Cummings
[first published in The Harvard Monthly, July 1915]

Not for the naked make I this my prayer,
That up and down the streets of life do go,
Having, save rags, no pleasant thing to wear,
Albeit the timid ways have put on snow
Against such wind as only God can blow:
Well ‘ware are Thou that these have no redress,
For always in Thine eyes is all distress
Of bodies that without due raiment be;
But are there Souls in winter garmentless,
Be with them, God! and pity also me.

Not for the hungry has my spirit care,
Whether their bodies shall be filled or no,
With whom the world her bounty will not share,
Wherefore they move on feeble feet and slow,
Feeling dear Death within their bodies grow:
Thou knowest these at pain beyond confess,
For sorrow never may Thy ears transgress,
Though lips be locked and pain shall hold the key;
But there are Souls whom hunger doth oppress.
Be with them, God! and pity also me.

Not for the homeless do I ask, where e’er
The lights of Hell their haunting faces show,
The legion undesired anywhere,
Whose hearts Love shall not build in,–who shall sow
And reap such loneliness as murder’s woe:
Thy gracious mouth to these shall acquiesce,
Which is so very wonderful to bless
The plundered heart with joy long held in fee;
But there are Souls that know not Love’s caress,
Be with them God! and pity also me.

Envoi

Father, for this we thank Thee without cesse:
Death is the body’s birthright, as I guess,
But are there Souls that walk in hopelessness,
Be with them God! and pity also me.

* * *

   

Ballad of Love (by E.E. Cummings)

Ballad of Love
by E.E. Cummings
[first published in The Harvard Monthly, May 1915]

Where is my love!  I cried.
Life, I bid thee to say.
Who hath taken away
Her who sate by my side.
For whiter is she than any pearl;
But the nights be lonely and dread.
Life, what hast thou done with thy loveliest girl?
    Look to the wood, She said.
For the white bird, O, the white bird,
Sleep he toucheth the white bird,
The white bird and the red.

Give me her eyes!  I cried.
For I would kiss them asleep,
That are so cool and deep,
So soft and wondering wide.
Bluer are they than ponds of dream;
But the skies be grey o’erhead.
Life, where may the eyes of thy fairest gleam?
     Look to the field, She said.
For the blue flower, O, the blue flower,
Night he stilleth the blue flower,
The blue flower and the red.

O, for her hair!  I cried.
Her young and wonderful hair,
To hide my sorrow there,
In the heart of a shining tide.
For her hair is more yellow than Heaven’s dawn;
But the world’s last leaves be shed.
Life, where is thy youngest angel gone?
     Look to the west, She said.
For the yellow light, O, the yellow light,
Death he moweth the yellow light,
The yellow light and the red.

* * *

        

Longing (by E.E. Cummings)

Longing
by E.E. Cummings
[first published in The Harvard Monthly, April 1915]

I miss you in the dawn, of gradual flowering lights
And prayer-pale stars that pass the drowsing-incensed hymns,
When early earth through all her greenly sleeping limbs
Puts on the exquisite gold day.  The Christlike sun
Moves to his resurrection in rejoicing heights,
And priestly hills partake of morning one by one.

I look for you when comes the beautiful blue moon,
When earth is a queen whose soul hath taken flight,
Embalmed in the entire strength of perfect light.
The immense heaven, a vase of utter silence, towers
Vastward, beyond where dreams the unawakened moon,
Holding infinity and her invisible flowers.

The hours drum up at sunset; now the west awakes
To armies.  Suddenly across the firmament
Couriers of light spur forth their captain’s high intent.
Now devout legions, mustering heavenward without cease,
Face the hushed hordes of night.  A trumpet-radiance breaks–
I see the young ranked glories marching down to peace.

Twilight, and great with silence of beginning dreams,
Yet haunted still by broken hosts in brave retreat,
Of blameless cohorts whelmed into sublime defeat,
Which, darkly under world their ragged spears withdraw,
Shall rise to fire the night in far victorious gleams,
When over the towered east leaps the white sword of dawn.

So do I want you, when in heavenly spaces God
Slips His white wonders on the silent trail of time;
When out the smoking eve begins to slowly climb
A great, red, fearsome flower, about whose fatal face
The faint moths gather and die–till withered pale, she nod
Far in the west, and morn the little dreams shall chase.

Now is the world at peace; Heaven unto her heart
Holdeth sublimities afar from touch of day,
Presents divine the fates shall never take away,
Unfaded memories, immortal ponderings,
The little knock of prayer whereby are thrown apart
Those inner doors which lead into all priceless things.

O night, mother divine of poetry and stars!
O thou whose patient face is nearest unto God,
Thou of chaste feet with beautiful oblivion shod,
Having the dear, swift-winged dark within thy hands,–
The prison invisible of souls thy peace unbars,
And love and I rise up into unspoken lands.

* * *

   

Sonnet (“I dreamed I was among the conquerors”) by E.E. Cummings

Sonnet
by E.E. Cummings
[first published in The Harvard Monthly, March 1916]

I dreamed I was among the conquerors,
Among those shadows, wonderfully tall,
Which splendidly inhabit the hymned hall
Whereof is “Fame” writ on its glorious doors.
Cloaked in green thunder are the sudden shores
Guarding the lintel’s gold, whence of the wall
Leaps the white echo; and within, the fall
Is heard of the eternal feet of wars.

Here, at high ease, saw I those purple lords,
Sipping the wine of forgetfulness,
Upon thrones intimate with all the skies:
Roland, and Richard, ‘mid the shining press;
Leonidas, belted with living swords;
And Albert, with the lions in his eyes.

* * *

   

Sonnet (“No sunset, but a grey, great struggling sky”) by E.E. Cummings

Sonnet
by E.E. Cummings
[first published in The Harvard Monthly, Christmas 1914]

No sunset, but a grey, great, struggling sky
Full of strong silence.   In green cloisters throng
Shy nuns of evening, telling beads of song.
Swallows, like winged prayers, soar steadily by,
Hallowing twilight. From the faint and high,
Night waves her misting censers, and along
The world, the singing rises into strong
Pure peace.   Now earth and heaven twain raptures die.

I knew your presence in the twilight mist,
In the world-filling darkness, in the rain
That spoke in whispers,–for the world was kissed
And laid in sleep.–These wild, sweet, perfect things
Are little miracles your memory sings,
Till heart on heart makes us one music again.

* * *

   

Night (by E.E. Cummings)

Night
by E.E. Cummings
first published in The Harvard Monthly, November 1914

Night, with sunset hauntings;
A red cloud under the moon.
Here will I meet my love
Beneath hushed trees.

Over the silver meadows
Of flower-folded grass,
Shall come to me
Her feet like arrows of moonlight.

Under the magic forest
Mute with shadow,
I will utterly greet
The blown star of her face.

By white waters
Sheathed in rippling silence,
Shall I behold her hands
Hurting the dark with lilies.

Hush thee to worship, soul!
Now is thy movement of love.
Night; and a red cloud
Under the moon.
    

* * *

   

Sonnet (“For that I have forgot the world”) by E.E. Cummings

Sonnet
by E.E. Cummings
first published in The Harvard Monthly, May 1914

For that I have forgot the world these days,
To enter at the smokeless lodge, and take
Life naked at primeval hands, to make
Clean comrades of large things in mighty ways;
That I have wrestled with the huge dismays
Which make the high head bow, the strong heart quake,
That I have battled for a golden stake,
Richer by every terror and amaze,–

For that I have forgot the world her cries
In the vast painted silences, that men
Have meant me nothing, under the great skies,
Over the high hills of God’s caress,–
Ye pitying elements!–be with me when
I kiss the little feet of foolishness.
    

* * *

   

Nocturne (by E.E. Cummings)

Nocturne
by E.E. Cummings
first published in The Harvard Monthly, March 1914

When the lithe moonlight silently
Leaped like a satyr to the grass,
Filling the night with nakedness,
All silently I loved my love
    In gardens of white ivory.

Three fragrant threes which guard the gates,
Three perfume-trees which sweeten nights,
Rise upon heaven, full of stars
And dripping with white radiance.
     Her body is more white than trees.

Five founts of Bacchus, honey-cold,
Five showers making drunk the lawns,
Spout up a dark delicious rain
Filling the earth with sleep and tears.
     Her tresses are more sweet than wine.

Seven flowers which breathe divinity,
Seven wondering blossoms of embrace,
Open their glory to the moon,
Kissing white immortality.
     Her mouth is chaster than a flower.

When the fleet moonlight silently
Fled like a white nymph down the grass,
Leaving the night to loneliness,
All songfully I loved my love
     In gardens of white ivory.

The strings are silver to my harp,
And all the frame is ebony
I think the moon is blossoming–
My hungry fingers bite the strings–
     My harp becomes a flower, and blooms.

The strings are golden to my harp,
And all the frame is as a rose.
I think the moon is quivering–
My longing fingers search the chords–
     My harp becomes a heart, and breaks.

There are three trees which stand like dreams
Before the gates of
ivory;
The moon has withered in the west—
My harp has
withered—Hail the day!
     (Wherefore the dagger at my thighs.)

There
are five founts which play like sleep
Upon the gates of ivory;
The
moon is songless in the west—
My harp is songless—Hail the day!
    
(Wherefore the dagger at my hands.)

There are seven flowers
which smile like death
Within the gates of ivory;
The moon is
broken in the west—
My harp is broken—Hail the day!
    
(Wherefore this dagger at my heart.)

    

* * *

   

Sonnet (“Long since, the flicker brushed”) by E.E. Cummings

Sonnet
by E.E. Cummings
first published in The Harvard Monthly, May 1913

Long since, the flicker brushed with shameless wing
The pale earth crucified, and to all lands
Bore the death-cry; uplifting her frail hands,
You aged maple, bowed with sorrowing,
Caught the red life.  New skies new seasons bring.
Wee red men build their lodge of yellow sands
In the primeval grass; the willow stands
Donned in her ermine, to be crowned with Spring.

How high the sky’s vast purple palace towers!
And lo, the pride of majesty beguiled,
With playful hands, King Winter’s laughing child,
Sweet April Heaven, from that royal brow
Hath plucked the snowy wreath of cloud, and now
Flings from her lap the million fluttering flowers.

* * *

   

Do you remember when the fluttering dusk (by E.E. Cummings)

Do you remember when the fluttering dusk
by E.E. Cummings
first published in The Harvard Monthly, June 1913

Do you remember when the fluttering dusk,
Beating the west with faint wild wings, through space,
Sank, with Night’s arrow in her heart?  The face
Of heaven clouded with the Day’s red doom
Was veiled in silent darkness, and the musk
Of summer’s glorious rose breathed in the gloom.

Then from the world’s harsh voice and glittering eyes,
The awful rand and roar of men and things,
Forth fared we into Silence.  The strong wings
Of Nature shut us from the common crowd;
On high, the stars like sleeping butterflies
Hung from the great grey drowsy flowers of cloud.

* * *