Friday, May 12, 2006


A poem from e.e. cummings' 95 poems


now (more near ourselves than we)
is a bird singing in a tree,
who never sings the same thing twice
and still that singing’s always his

eyes can feel but ears may see
there never lived a gayer he;
if earth and sky should break in two
he’d make them one (his song’s so true)

who sings for us for you for me
for each leaf newer than can be;
and for his own (his love) his dear
he sings till everywhere is here


Jenna said...

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)


I need to get back to some e.e. I "gave up" poetry (sans Shel Silverstein) after a bad breakup with a poet but I think I'm sane enough to make a return. Yes.

cloudscome said...

Ah well I think poetry is what heals my heart from breaking up with a poet...

e.e. always does something to me...