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The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
e. e. cummings
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e. e. cummings
Age: 67 †
Born: 1894
Born: October 14
Died: 1962
Died: September 3
Novelist
Painter
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Cambridge
Massachusetts
e. e. cummings
Edward Estlin Cummings
E. Estlin Cummings
e e cummings
EE cummings
Edward Eatlin Cummings
Mud
Summer
Spring
Wonderful
Nature
Luscious
World
Puddle
Puddles
Springtime
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Whatever's merely willful, and not miraculous (be never it so skilful) must wither fail and cease - but better than to grow beauty knows no.
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Buffalo Bill's defunct
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in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems
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Be of love a little more careful than of anything.
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here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
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I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.
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Now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened.
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you shall above all things be glad and young For if you're young,whatever life you wear it will become youand if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become.
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nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility
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Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.
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time is a tree (this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough
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Equality is what does not exist among mortals.
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the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
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it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than thesquarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings mostpeople are snobs.
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When god decided to invent everything he took one reath bigger than a circustent and everything began
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And the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love
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And the coolness of your smile is stirringofbirds between my arms
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Buffalo Bill's defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death
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If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.
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Take the so-called standard of living. What do most people mean by living? They don’t mean living. They mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science, in its finite but unbounded wisdom, has succeeded in selling their wives.
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