A poem by e. e. cummings

now air is air and thing is thing: no bliss

of heavenly earth beguiles our spirits, whose
miraculously disenchanted eyes

live the magnificent honesty of space.

Mountains are mountains now; skies now are skies –
and such a sharpening freedom lifts our blood
as if whole supreme this complete doubtless

universe we’d (and we alone) made

– yes; or as if our souls, awakened from
summer’s green trance, would not adventure soon
a deeper magic: that white sleep wherein
all human curiosity we’ll spend
(gladly, as lovers must) immortal and

the courage to receive time’s mightiest dream