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i do not know what it is about you that closes and opensonly something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
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
Deeper
Eyes
Eye
Voice
Closes
Something
Roses
Love
Understands
Opens
Rose
More quotes by e. e. cummings
Every artist's strictly illimitable country is himself. An artist who plays that country false has committed suicide and even a good lawyer cannot kill the dead. But a human being who's true to himself - whoever himself may be - is immortal and all the atomic bombs of all the antiartists in spacetime will never civilize immortality.
e. e. cummings
In just - Spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee
e. e. cummings
Damn everything but the circus! ...damn everything that is grim, dull, motionless, unrisking, inward turning, damn everything that won't get into the circle, that won't enjoy. That won't throw it's heart into the tension, surprise, fear and delight of the circus, the round world, the full existence.
e. e. cummings
The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be somebody else.
e. e. cummings
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
e. e. cummings
guilt is the cause of more marauders than history's most obscene disauders
e. e. cummings
I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness
e. e. cummings
At least the Pilgrim Fathers used to shoot Indians: the Pilgrim Children merely punch time clocks.
e. e. cummings
Always it’s Spring)and everyone’s in love and flowers pick themselves.
e. e. cummings
Spring is like a perhaps hand
e. e. cummings
And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth in the bright air.
e. e. cummings
Who knows if the moon's / a balloon, coming out of a keen city / in the sky - filled with pretty people?
e. e. cummings
I spill my bright incalculable soul
e. e. cummings
(existing's tricky:but to live's a gift)
e. e. cummings
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart [ i carry it in my heart ]
e. e. cummings
who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you
e. e. cummings
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.
e. e. cummings
Do not hate or fear the artist in yourselves... Honor and love him...do not try to possess him. Trust him as nobly as you trust tomorrow. Only the artist in yourself is more truthful than the night.
e. e. cummings
The mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind looked long at the sticky moon opening in dusk her new wings then decently hanged himself,one afternoon. The last thing he saw was you naked amid unnaked things.
e. e. cummings
a man who had fallen among thieves lay by the roadside on his back dressed in fifteenthrate ideas wearing a round jeer for a hat
e. e. cummings
