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the poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople... you and i are human beings mostpeople are snobs.

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
Come
Snobs
Snob
Poems
Beings
Human
Humans

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Love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skillfully curled) all worlds
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guilt is the cause of more marauders than history's most obscene disauders
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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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the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
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Really unreal world, will you perhaps do the breathing for me while I am away?
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more each particular person is(my love) alive than every world can understand and now you are and i am now and we're a mystery that will never happen again, a miracle which has never happened before and shining this our now must come to then
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Like the burlesque comedian, I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement.
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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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Nobody else can be alive for you nor can you be alive for anybody else.
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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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-tomorrow is our permanent address and there they’ll scarcely find us(if they do, we’ll move away still further:into now
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Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.
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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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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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The first step to expanding your reality is to discard the tendency to exclude things from possibility.
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i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my uncle Sol and started a worm farm)
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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
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O sweet spontaneous earth
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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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great men burn bridges before they come to them
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