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If 180 million people want to be undead, that’s their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.
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
Millions
Happen
Alive
Happens
Like
People
Undead
Funeral
Million
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Must's a schoolroom in the month of may
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Seeming's enough for slaves of space and time - ours is the now and here of freedom. Come.
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All ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again.
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Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people?
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Exists no miracle mightier than this: to feel.
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it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful
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No evil is so worse than worst you fall in hate with love.
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O sweet spontaneous earth
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one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
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As small as a world as large as alone.
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Now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened.
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since the thing perhaps is to eat flowers and not to be afraid
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The hardest fight a man has to fight is to live in a world where every single day someone is trying to make you someone you do not want to be--
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Progress is a comfortable disease.
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May my heart always be open to little birds, who are the secrets of living. Whatever they sing is better than to know. And if men should not hear them - then men are old.
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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
e. e. cummings
The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.
e. e. cummings
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
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You shall above all things be glad and young.
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Your slightest look easily will unclose me, though I have closed myself as fingers, you open petal by petal myself a Spring opens her first rose.
e. e. cummings