he sings till everywhere is here

now(more near ourselves than we)
is a bird singing in a tree,

who never sings the same thing twice

and still that singing's always his

eyes can feel but ears may see

there lived a gayer he;

if earth and sky should break in two

he'd make them one(his song's so true)

who sings for us for you for me

for each leaf newer than can be:

and for his own(his love)his dear

he sings till everywhere is here

-- e. e. cummings

Time's a strange fellow; more he gives than takes

all nearness pauses, while a star can grow

all distance breathes a final dream of bells;

perfectly outlined against afterglow

are all amazing the and peacefull hills

(not where not here but neither's blue most both)

and history immeasurably is 

wealthier by a single sweet day's death:

as not imagined secrecies comprise

goldenly huge whole the upfloating moon.

Time's a strange fellow;

                                        more he gives than takes

(and he takes all)nor any marvel finds

quite disappeaance but some keener makes

losing,gaining

                        --love! if a world ends

more than all worlds begin to(see?)begin

-- e.e. cummings

that not all matterings of mind equal one violet

out of the lie of no

rises a truth of yes

(only herself and who

illimitably is)

making fools understand

(like wintry me)that not

all matterings of mind

equal one violet

-- e.e. cummings

read for sheer wonder mere surprise

for prodigal read generous

-- for youth read age --

read for sheer wonder mere surprise

(then turn the page)

contentment read for ecstasy

-- for poem prose --

caution for curiosity

(and close your eyes)

-- e.e. cummings

time is a tree(this life one leaf)

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong

or molehills are from mountains made

-long enough and just so long

will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men's hair

and every finger is a toe

and any courage is a fear

-long enough and just so long

will the impure think all things pure

and hornets wail by children stung

 
or as the seeing are the blind

and robins never welcome spring

nor flatfolk prove their world is round

nor dingsters die at break of dong

and common's rare and millstones float

-long enough and just so long

tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy's the voice

down shall go which and up come who

breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do

-time is a tree(this life one leaf)

but love is the sky and i am for you

just so long and long enough

- e.e. cummings

life is more true than reason will deceive

life is more true than reason will deceive
(more secret or than madness did reveal)

deeper is life than lose:higher than have

- but beauty is more each than living's all

multiplied with infinity sans if

the mightiest meditations of mankind

cancelled are by one merely opening leaf

(beyond whose nearness there is no beyond)

or does some littler bird than eyes can learn

look up to silence and completely sing?

futures are obsolete;pasts are unborn

(here less than nothing's more than everything)

death,as men call him,ends what they call men

- but beauty is more now than dying's when

- e.e.cummings

in time of daffodils

in time of daffodils(who know

the goal of living is to grow)

forgetting why, remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim

the aim of waking is to dream,

remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze

our now and here with paradise)

forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond

whatever mind may comprehend,

remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be

(when time from time shall set us free)

forgetting me, remember me

yes is a pleasant country

yes is a pleasant country:
if's wintry
(my lovely)
let' 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)

- e.e.cummings

Spring is like a perhaps hand

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging

a window,into which people look(while

people stare

arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange

thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps 

Hand in a window

(carefully to

and fro moving New and

Old things,while

people stare carefully

moving a perhaps 

fraction of flower here placing

an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

- e.e.cummings

rendering death and forever with each breathing

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, 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

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

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

- e.e. cummings

love makes the little thickness of the coin

hate blows a bubble of despair 

hate blows a bubble of despair into

hugeness world system universe and bang

-fear buries a tomorrow under woe

and up comes yesterday most green and young

pleasure and pain are merely surfaces

(one itself showing, itself hiding one)

life's only and true value neither is

love makes the little thickness of the coin.

comes here a man would have from madame death

nevertheless now and without winter spring?

she'll spin that spirit her own fingers with

and give him nothing (if he should not sing)

how much more than enough for both of us

darling. And if i sing you are my voice,

- e.e.cummings