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web | The Sun Is but a Morning Star

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victum(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born - pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if - listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

1944

© e. e. cummings
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© E-publisher LiterNet, 04.10.2009
The Sun Is but a Morning Star. Anthology of American Literature. Edited by Albena Bakratcheva. Varna: LiterNet, 2008-2010