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.
E. E. CUMMINGSI 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.
E. E. CUMMINGSSomeone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
E. E. CUMMINGSThe snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches.
E. E. CUMMINGSThe hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be somebody else.
E. E. CUMMINGSThe hardest fight a man has to fight is to live in a world where every single day someone is trying to make you someone you do not want to be–
E. E. CUMMINGSMost people are perfectly afraid of silence.
E. E. CUMMINGSSomewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond.
E. E. CUMMINGSHere is the deepest secret nobody knows. Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide. And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
E. E. CUMMINGSLovers alone wear sunlight.
E. E. CUMMINGSAn intelligent person fights for lost causes, realizing that others are merely effects.
E. E. CUMMINGSAmerica makes prodigious mistakes, America has colossal faults, but one thing cannot be denied: America is always on the move. She may be going to Hell, of course, but at least she isn’t standing still.
E. E. CUMMINGSLove is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star.
E. E. CUMMINGSThe symbol of all art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism, into the secret glories which it contains.
E. E. CUMMINGSIf a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little – somebody who is obsessed by Making.
E. E. CUMMINGSSomewhere 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.
E. E. CUMMINGSLove is the whole and more than all.
E. E. CUMMINGS