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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.
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
Thou
Spring
Sweet
Beauty
Prodded
Often
Thumb
Science
Naughty
Earth
Thumbs
Spontaneous
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O sweet spontaneous earth
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I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
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Buffalo Bill's defunct
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may i be i is the only prayer--not may i be great or good or beautiful or wise or strong today... may i be me....five foot eleven, brown hair/eyed, smart, serious, happy, frustrated, impatient, joyful, running, sleeping, smiling, eating, trying, believing, listening, being & becoming.
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Nothing recedes like progress.
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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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one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
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So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.
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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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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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...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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Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.
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True wars are never won.
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For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It's always our self we find in the sea.
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-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.
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Only by you my heart always moves.
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As small as a world as large as alone.
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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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Well, write poetry, for God's sake, it's the only thing that matters.
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the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
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