Quotes from E.E. Cummings

yes is a pleasant country: if's wintry (my lovely) let's open the year both is the very weather (not either) my treasure, when violets appear love is a deeper season than reason; my sweet one (and april's where we're)

life's not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis..

and on forever's very now we stand

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.

a moon swims out of a cloud a clock strikes midnight a finger pulls a trigger a bird flies into a mirror)

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)

Goddamn everything but the circus

how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any–lifted from the no of all nothing–human merely being doubt unimaginable You?

It takes courage to grow up and turn out to be who you really are.

Because only the truest things always are true because they can't be true

lady through whose profound and fragile lips the sweet small clumsy feet of April came into the ragged meadow of my soul.

I fear no fate for you are my fate, my sweet.

What's beyond logic happens beneath will; nor can these moments be translated: i say that even after April by God there is no excuse for May

tomorrow is our permanent address

it's spring and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee

It was hard enough to get to this point, to figure out what my true purpose is and who I am, and then when I found the courage to start living it, I thought the hard work was done!

floatfloafloflf lloloa tatoatloatf loat fl oat f loatl ngL y &fris klispin glyT w irlEric

ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder into freshness.

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.

annie died the other day never was there such a lay-- whom,among her dollies,dad first(don't tell your mother)had

since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you

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. But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows, And, if you like, The perfect places of Sleep.

to hell with literature we want something redblooded

be with me in the sacred witchery of almostness which May makes follow soon on the sweet heels of passed afterday, clothe thy soul's coming merely