thy fingers make early flowers of all things. thy hair mostly the hours love: a smothness which sings, saying (though love be a day) do not fear, we will go amaying. thy whitest feet crisply are straying. always thy moist eyes at kisses are playing, whose strangeness much says; singing (though love be a day) for which girl art thou flowers bringing? to be thy lips is a sweet thing and small. Death, thee i call rich beyond wishing if this thou catch, else missing. (though love be a day and life be nothing, it shall not stop kissing).
I Spill My Soul
Song Cycle by Judith Cloud (1954 - 2023)
1. thy fingers make early flowers  [sung text checked 1 time]
Authorship:
- by E. E. (Edward Estlin) Cummings (1894 - 1962), no title, appears in Tulips and Chimneys, in 1. Tulips, in 1. Songs, no. 3, first published 1923
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Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Garrett Medlock [Guest Editor]2. this is the garden:colours come and go  [sung text checked 1 time]
this is the garden:colours come and go, frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing strong silent greens serenely lingering, absolute lights like baths of golden snow. This is the garden:pursed lips do blow upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing (of harps celestial to the quivering string) invisible faces hauntingly and slow. This is the garden. Time shall surely reap and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled, in other lands where other songs be sung; yet stand They here enraptured,as among The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
Authorship:
- by E. E. (Edward Estlin) Cummings (1894 - 1962), no title, appears in XLI Poems, in 5. Sonnets, no. 4, first published 1925
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Note: this poem entered the public domain in 2021.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
3. O Thou to whom the musical white spring  [sung text checked 1 time]
O Thou to whom the musical white spring offers her lily inextinguishable, taught by thy tremulous grace bravely to fling Implacable death's mysteriously sable robe from her redolent shoulders, Thou from whose feet reincarnate song suddenly leaping flameflung, mounts,inimitably to lose herself where the wet stars softly are keeping their exquisite dreams -- O Love! upon thy dim shrine of intangible commemoration, (from whose faint close as some grave languorous hymn pledged to illimitable dissipation unhurried clouds of incense fleetly roll) i spill my bright incalculable soul.
Authorship:
- by E. E. (Edward Estlin) Cummings (1894 - 1962), no title, appears in XLI Poems, in 5. Sonnets, no. 2
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Note: this poem entered the public domain in 2021.
Researcher for this page: Judith Cloud