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And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth in the bright air.

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
Thing
Wild
Herald
Men
Air
Forgetfulness
Spring
April
Trump
Drives
Beauty
Magnificent
Sound
Bright
Stills
Mad
Witchery
Still
Forth
Odour

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...and down they forgot as up they grew.
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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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Nobody else can be alive for you nor can you be alive for anybody else.
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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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The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be somebody else.
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Take the so-called standard of living. What do most people mean by living? They don’t mean living. They mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science, in its finite but unbounded wisdom, has succeeded in selling their wives.
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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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Do not hate or fear the artist in yourselves... Honor and love him...do not try to possess him. Trust him as nobly as you trust tomorrow. Only the artist in yourself is more truthful than the night.
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What time is it? It is by every star a different time, and each most falsely true.
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It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.
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here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
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XVII Lady, i will touch you with my mind. Touch you and touch and touch until you give me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene (lady i will touch you with my mind.)Touch you,that is all, lightly and you utterly will become with infinite care the poem which i do not write.
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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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nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
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The only man, woman, or child who wrote a simple declarative sentence with seven grammatical errors is dead.
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If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.
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I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.
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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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it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful
e. e. cummings