e.e.cummings

A poem from e.e. cummings' 95 poems

87

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



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