The words are pretty -- but what does he think of her? He's saying, I think, that she's brain dead. I think if I was his love I'd be insulted...thy head is a quick forest/filled with sleeping birds
thy head is a casket/of the cool jewel of thy mind
Oh, so many things can be charming or insulting, depending on how one says them (or reads them). I think it's funny that the metaphors for legs have to do with trees and horses and that the lips are described as satraps. These are all powerful things that tend toward the masculine. Or at least they can be construed that way.
For whatever reason this website is blocked at work, so I can't read the context, but I don't read it that way. I think he is pointing out that she perhaps doesn't use the gifts that she has. A forest filled with sleeping birds sounds more dormant than dead. Birds are mysterious and beautiful creatures that display complex behavior individually and collectively, and also make beautiful music. When they sleep, they still possess these qualities, but they aren't using them at the moment. The casket line I can't really make heads or tails of, however, so maybe you're correct.He's saying, I think, that she's brain dead.
To me, the "cool jewel" of her mind reads as if her mind is detached. Perhaps calculating, perhaps very intellectual. However, it is still locked away - hidden, perhaps. Jewels catch in and reflect light. They are also hard (typically) and, although now I'm taking the esoteric interpretation up a notch, not forgiving. My favorite is the line about "thy legs are the trees of dreaming." Where does fruit grow? At the top of trees! And you eat fruit. Come on. I think that couplet is so much more sexual - and sexy! - than the lines about her thighs!
My Love
E. E. Cummings
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy breasts are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense