| Poems by e. e. cummings |
these children singing in stone a silence of stone these little children wound with stone flowers opening for ever these silently lit tle children are petals their song is a flower of always their flowers of stone are silently singing a song more silent than silence these always children forever singing wreathed with singing blossoms children of stone with blossoming eyes know if a lit tle tree listens forever to always children singing forever a song made of silent as stone silence of song |
who knows if the moon's a balloon,coming out of a keen city in the sky--filled with pretty people? (and if you and i should get into it,if they should take me and take you into their balloon, why then we'd go up higher with all the pretty people than houses and steeples and clouds: go sailing away and away sailing into a keen city which nobody's ever visited,where always it's Spring)and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves |
| 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 will easily unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,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 color 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 |
in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful the queer old balloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing from hop-scotch and jump-rope and it's spring and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee |
love is the every only god who spoke this earth so glad and big even a thing all small and sad man,may his mighty briefness dig for love beginning means return seas who could sing so deep and strong one queerying wave will whitely yearn from each last shore and home come young so truly perfectly the skies by merciful love whispered were, completes its brightness with your eyes any illimitable star |
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. |