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E.e. cummings - here`s to opening and upward
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here`s to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here`s to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning`s beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever`s afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here`s to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
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