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I spill my bright incalculable soul

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
Incalculable
Spill
Spills
Bright
Soul

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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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Yours is the light by which my spirit's born: - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
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the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
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Always it’s Spring)and everyone’s in love and flowers pick themselves.
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Well, write poetry, for God's sake, it's the only thing that matters.
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Unbeing dead isn't being alive.
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The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
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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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Private property began the instant somebody had a mind of his own.
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Listen there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go.
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you shall above all things be glad and young For if you're young,whatever life you wear it will become youand if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become.
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all nothing's only our hugest home the most who die, the more we live
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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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Because you aren't afraid to kiss the dirt (and consequently dare to climb the sky)
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Lessons hide in his wrinkles. Bells ding in the oldness of eyes. Did he by, any chance, tell children that there are such monstrous things as peace and goodwill...a corrupter of youth no doubt.
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True wars are never won.
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in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems
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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.
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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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