Quotes from E.E. Cummings

Your homecoming will be my homecoming

Always it's Spring)and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves.

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems

feeling is first

love being such, or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do

If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence; in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

Damn everything but the circus! ...damn everything that is grim, dull, motionless, unrisking, inward turning, damn everything that won't get into the circle, that won't enjoy. That won't throw it's heart into the tension, surprise, fear and delight of the circus, the round world, the full existence...

If 180 million people want to be undead, that's their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.

What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?

Here's to opening and upward... and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.

mr youse needn't be so spry concernin questions arty each has his tastes but as for i i likes a certain party gimme the he-man's solid bliss for youse ideas i'll match youse a pretty girl who naked is is worth a million statues

the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

Damn everything but the circus!. . .The average 'painter' 'sculptor' 'poet' 'composer' 'playwright' is a person who cannot leap through a hoop from the back of a galloping horse, make people laugh with a clown's mouth, orchestrate twenty lions.

i shall imagine life is not worth dying,if (and when)roses complain their beauties are in vain but though mankind persuades itself that every weed's a rose,roses(you feel certain)will only smile

Awake,chaos:we have napped.

and down they forgot as up they grew.

The Symbol of all Art is the Prism. The goal is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism into the secret glories it contains.

Like the burlesque comedian, I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement.

n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s

A good Book, has no Ending...

For surely as each November has its April, mysteries only are significant; and one mystery-of-mysteries creates them all: nothing false and possible is love (who's imagined,therefore limitless) love's to giving as to keeping's give; as yes is to if,love is to yes

what time is it?its is by every star a different time,and each most falsely true ...