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all nothing's only our hugest home the most who die, the more we live

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
Dies
Home
Live
Nothing
Emptiness

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And the coolness of your smile is stirringofbirds between my arms
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When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man
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someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then) they said their nevers they slept their dream
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When god decided to invent everything he took one reath bigger than a circustent and everything began
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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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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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The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
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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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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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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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It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
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yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds
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Because you aren't afraid to kiss the dirt (and consequently dare to climb the sky)
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...remember one thing only: that it's you-nobody else-who determines your destiny and decides your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you nor can you be alive for anybody else.
e. e. cummings
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It takes three to make a child.
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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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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.
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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.
e. e. cummings
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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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Laughing is just another way of showing people your wise
e. e. cummings