Spring,that omits no mention of desire in every curved and curling thing,yet holds continuous intercourse-through skies and trees the lilac's smoke the poppy's pompous fire the pansy's purple patience and the grave frailty of daises
e.e. cummings (1894 - 1962)
Source: E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962, Pages: 5 (Epithalamion)
We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
There are certain things in which one is unable to believe for the simple reason that he never ceases to feel them. Things of this sort — things which are always inside of us and in fact are us and which consequently will not be pushed off or away where we can begin thinking about them — are no longer things; they, and the us which they are, equals A Verb; an IS.
Your poems are rather hard to understand, whereas your paintings are so easy. Easy? Of course — you paint flowers and girls and sunsets; things that everybody understands. I never met him. Who? Everybody. Did you ever hear of nonrepresentational painting? I am. Pardon me? I am a painter, and painting is nonrepresentational. Not all painting. No: housepainting is representational. And what does a housepainter represent? Ten dollars an hour. In other words, you don't want to be serious — It takes two to be serious.