Remember one thing only: that it’s you-nobody else-who determines your destiny and decides your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else.
E. E. CUMMINGSRemember one thing only: that it’s you-nobody else-who determines your destiny and decides your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else.
E. E. CUMMINGSTo destroy is always the first step in any creation.
E. E. CUMMINGSYou and I are more than you and I because it’s we.
E. E. CUMMINGSOnly by you my heart always moves.
E. E. CUMMINGSMost people are perfectly afraid of silence.
E. E. CUMMINGSWhenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
E. E. CUMMINGSHere’s to opening and upward… and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.
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 theory of the free press is not that the truth will be presented completely or perfectly in any one instance, but that the truth will emerge from free discussion.
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. CUMMINGSYou and I are more than you and I because it’s we.
E. E. CUMMINGSAnd this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
E. E. CUMMINGSI’d rather have two good friends, than 500,000 admirers.
E. E. CUMMINGSTwice I have lived forever in a smile.
E. E. CUMMINGSI 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.
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. CUMMINGS