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Always it’s Spring)and everyone’s in love and flowers pick themselves.
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
Flowers
Pick
Picks
Spring
Flower
Everyone
Always
Love
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An artist, a man, a failure, must proceed.
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when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because.
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The Artist is no other than he who unlearns what he has learned, in order to know himself.
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Here's to opening and upward... and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.
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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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O sweet spontaneous earth how often has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty thou answereth them only with spring.
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In just - Spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee
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Sweet springtime is my time is your time is our time for springtime is love time and viva sweet love.
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There is no music unless the drum and the drummer are one.
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one pierced moment whiter than the rest -turning from the tremendous lie of sleep i watch the roses of the day grow deep.
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great men burn bridges before they come to them
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maybe god is a child ‘s hand)very carefully bring -ing to you and to me(and quite with out crushing)the papery weightless diminutive world with a hole in it out of which demons with wings would be streaming if something had(maybe they couldn’t agree)not happened(and floating- ly int o
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twice I have lived forever in a smile
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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.
e. e. cummings
since the thing perhaps is to eat flowers and not to be afraid
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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
Spring is like a perhaps hand
e. e. cummings
All ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again.
e. e. cummings