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Meanwhile myself et cetera lay quietly in the deep mud et cetera (dreaming, et cetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your Etcetera.)

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
Eyes
Meanwhile
Eye
Mud
Dream
Quietly
Dreaming
Knees
Lays
Smile
Etcetera
Deep
Cetera

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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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yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds
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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.
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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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i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)
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and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
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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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And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.
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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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The first step to expanding your reality is to discard the tendency to exclude things from possibility.
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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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Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
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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 moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
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there's time for laughing and there's time for crying— for hoping for despair for peace for longing —a time for growing and a time for dying: a night for silence and a day for singing but more than all(as all your more than eyes tell me)there is a time for timelessness
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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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As small as a world as large as alone.
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