And now you are and I am and we’re a mystery which will never happen again.
E. E. CUMMINGSThe eyes of my eyes are opened.
More E. E. Cummings Quotes
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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.
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The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be somebody else.
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The snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches.
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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.
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A pretty girl who is naked is worth a million statues.
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Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: – you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
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Listen; there’s a hell of a good universe next door: let’s go.
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Exists no miracle mightier than this: to feel.
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The eyes of my eyes are opened.
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Most people are perfectly afraid of silence.
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You shall above all things be glad and young.
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Kisses are a better fate than wisdom.
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We can never be born enough.
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You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
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Here’s to opening and upward… and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.
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Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else.
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And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
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Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people?
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I fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows.
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A pretty girl who is naked is worth a million statues.
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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.
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And now you are and I am and we’re a mystery which will never happen again.
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May my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living.
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Someone 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.
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If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little – somebody who is obsessed by Making.
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The Artist is no other than he who unlearns what he has learned, in order to know himself.
E. E. CUMMINGS