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E.e. cummings - Puella Mea
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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 
(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 
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 Salomé 
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 her eyes which like two elves 
incredibly amuse themselves) 
with a look of faerie, 
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.) 
     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 (sometimes 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. 

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 
(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 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, alway which feels 
the keen ecstatic actual tread 
(and thereto perfectly responds) 
of all things exquisite and dead, 
all living things and beautiful. 

(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 their ladies were.) 

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 
-- alway 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.) 
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. 

(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.) 

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 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. 

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! 
never boast your beauties dead 
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 why delicious glance 
things which never more shall be, 
perfect things of faerie, 
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. 

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 ladies 
Harun Omar and Master Hafiz.
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