Quotes by E.E. Cummings

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.

may came home with a smooth round stoneas small as a world and as large as alone.

lifes not a paragraphAnd death i think is no parenthesis

may my heart always be open to littlebirds who are the secrets of livingwhatever they sing is better than to knowand if men should not hear them men are oldmay my mind stroll about hungryand fearless and thirsty and suppleand even if its sunday may i be wrongfor whenever men are right they are not youngand may myself do nothing usefullyand love yourself so more than trulytheres never been quite such a fool who could failpulling all the sky over him with one smile

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands-excerpt of #35 from 100 Selected Poems

since the thing perhaps isto eat flowers and not to be afraid

when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because

sweet spring is yourtime is my time is ourtime for springtime is lovetimeand viva sweet love(all the merry little birds areflying in the floating in thevery spirits singing inare winging in the blossoming)lovers go and lovers comeawandering awonderingbut any two are perfectlyalone theres nobody else alive(such a sky and such a suni never knew and neither did youand everybody never breathedquite so many kinds of yes)not a tree can count his leaveseach herself by openingbut shining who by thousands meanonly one amazing thing(secretly adoring shylytiny winging darting floatingmerry in the blossomingalways joyful selves are singing)sweet spring is yourtime is my time is ourtime for springtime is lovetimeand viva sweet love

Humanity i love you because youare perpetually putting the secret oflife in your pants and forgettingits there and sitting downon itand because you areforever making poems in the lapof death Humanityi hate you

Such was a poet and shall be and is-wholl solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeams architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountains heartbeat in his hand.

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.

if everything happens that cant be done(and anythings righterthan bookscould plan)the stupidest teacher will almost guess(with a runskiparound we go yes)theres nothing as something as oneone hasnt a why or because or although(and buds know betterthan booksdont grow)ones anything old being everything new(with a whatwhicharound we come who)ones everyanything soso world is a leaf so tree is a bough(and birds sing sweeterthan bookstell how)so here is away and so your is a my(with a downuparound again fly)forever was never till nownow i love you and you love me(and books are shutterthan bookscan be)and deep in the high that does nothing but fall(with a shouteacharound we go all)theres somebody calling whos wewere anything brighter than even the sun(were everything greaterthan booksmight mean)were everanything more than believe(with a spinleapalive were alive)were wonderful one times one

hate blows a bubble of despair intohugeness world system universe and bang-fear buries a tomorrow under woeand up comes yesterday most green and young

something genuine like a mark in a toilet, graced with guts and gutted with grace

for whenever men are right they are not young

And now you are and I am and were a mystery which will never happen again.

theres time for laughing and theres 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 singingbut more than all(as all your more than eyes tell me)there is a time for timelessness

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do

i think you will be tired of tellingme & my dreams to go to hell

Awake,chaos:we have napped.