100 Selected Poems

by E.E. Cummings

12 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.

may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail pulling all the sky over him with one smile

pity this busy monster,manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim(death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness —electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange;lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish returns on its unself. A world of made is not a world of born—pity poor flesh and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if—listen:there’s a hell of a good universe next door;let’s go

when god decided to invent everything he took one breath bigger than a circustent and everything began when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because

let it go—the smashed word broken open vow or the oath cracked length wise—let it go it was sworn to go let them go—the truthful liars and the false fair friends and the boths and neithers—you must let them go they were born to go let all go—the big small middling tall bigger really the biggest and all things—let all go dear so comes love

true lovers in each happening of their hearts live longer than all which and every who; despite what fear denies,what hope asserts, what falsest both disprove by proving true (all doubts,all certainties,as villains strive and heroes through the mere mind’s poor pretend —grim comics of duration:only love immortally occurs beyond the mind) such a forever is love’s any now and her each here is such an everywhere, even more true would truest lovers grow if out of midnight dropped more suns than are (yes;and if time should ask into his was all shall,their eyes would never miss a yes)

yes is a pleasant country: if’s wintry (my lovely) let’s open the year both is the very weather (not either) my treasure, when violets appear love is a deeper season than reason; my sweet one (and april’s where we’re)