I. you asked me to come: it was raining a little,
and the spring; a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled

battered by stuttering pearl,
            leaves jiggled
to the jigging fragrance of newness
- - - and then. My crazy fingers liked your dress
. . . .  your kiss, your kiss was a distinct brittle

flower, and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge. So until light
each having each we promised to forget - - -

wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs, the electric trite
thighs; the hair stupidly priceless.

 

II. the bed is not very big

a sufficient pillow shoveling
her small manure-shaped head

one sheet on which distinctly wags

at times the weary twig
of a neckless nudity
(very occasionally budding

a flabby algebraic odour

jigs
    et tout en face
always wiggles the perfectly dead
finger of thitherhithering gas.

clothed with a luminous fur

poilu

    a Jesus sags
in frolicsome wooden agony).

 

III.
my sonnet is A light goes on in
the toiletwindow, that's straightacross from
my window, night air bothered with a rustling din

sort of sublimated tom-tom
which quite outdoes the mandolin-

man's tiny racket. The horses sleep upstairs.
And you can see their ears. Ears win-

k, funny stable. In the morning they go out in pairs:
amazingly, one pair is white
(but you know that) they look at each other. Nudge.

(if they love each other, who cares?)
They pull the morning out of the night.

I am living with a mouse who shares

my meals with him, which is fair as i judge.

 

IV.

the
   sky
      was
can   dy   lu
minous
     edible
spry
   pinks shy
lemons
greens   coo   I choc
olate
s.

  un   der,
  a   lo
co
mo
   tive    s pout
           ing
             vi
             o
             lets

--- ©1923, e. e. cummings