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Lessons hide in his wrinkles. Bells ding in the oldness of eyes. Did he by, any chance, tell children that there are such monstrous things as peace and goodwill...a corrupter of youth no doubt.
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
Children
Lessons
Things
Youth
Corrupter
Doubt
Ding
Eyes
Goodwill
Chance
Wrinkles
Eye
Monstrous
Peace
Bells
Tell
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I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
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that strictly(and how)scienti fic land of supernod where freedom is compulsory and only man is god.
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You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.
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Progress is a comfortable disease.
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the other guineahen died of a broken heart and we came to New York. I used to sit at a table,drawing wings with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept remembering how your mind looked when it slept for several years,to wake up asking why. So then you turned into a photograph of somebody who’s trying not to laugh at somebody who’s trying not to cry
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It takes three to make a child.
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yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds
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I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness
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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
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All ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again.
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guilt is the cause of more marauders than history's most obscene disauders
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in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems
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O gouvernment francais, I think it was not very clever of You to put this terrible doll in La Ferte for when Governments are found dead there is always a little doll on top of them, pulling and tweaking with his little hands to get back at the microscopic knife which sticks firmly in the quiet meat of their hearts.
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For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It's always our self we find in the sea.
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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.
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Really unreal world, will you perhaps do the breathing for me while I am away?
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