e. e. Cummings Poem

blossoming are people

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blossoming are people

nimbler than Really
go whirling into gaily

white thousands return

by millions and dreaming

drift hundreds come swimming
(Each a keener secret

than silence even tells)

all the earth has turned to sky

are flowers neither why nor how
when is now and which is Who

and i am you are iam we

(pretty twinkle merry bells)

Someone has been born
everyone is noone

dance around the snowman

if a cheerfulest Elephantangelchild should sit
infinite jukethrob smoke & swallow to dis

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