Progress is a comfortable disease.
E. E. CUMMINGSProgress is a comfortable disease.
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. CUMMINGSYour head is a living forest full of songbirds.
E. E. CUMMINGSHere’s to opening and upward… and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.
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. CUMMINGSI’d rather have two good friends, than 500,000 admirers.
E. E. CUMMINGSYou 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.
E. E. CUMMINGSLove is the whole and more than all.
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. CUMMINGSFor whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It’s always our self we find in the sea.
E. E. CUMMINGSI will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness.
E. E. CUMMINGSA pretty girl who is naked is worth a million statues.
E. E. CUMMINGSAs small as a world as large as alone.
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. CUMMINGSWe do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
E. E. CUMMINGSYours is the light by which my spirit’s born: – you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
E. E. CUMMINGS