Three poems (more than two!) poems by E. E. Cummings recorded on the shore of the Virgin River in northern Arizona, at the edge of the Mojave Desert. I was sitting on a big, jutting chunk of red sandstone, surrounded by Joshua trees and cacti.

These three poems are of varying levels of difficulty, but for today, the only one that gets the double treatment is "sweet spring is your."

One thing I didn't mention—because I am a man with great self-control—is that I can't read "viva sweet love" without thinking of Elvis singing "Viva Las Vegas." And maybe that's why I chose this poem, sitting just a long stone's throw from the road that would take me there. I can imagine Elvis singing a song with these lyrics, and it would have been a classic.

Instead, I discovered "sweet spring is your" from this album ([Apple Music](https://music.apple.com/us/album/the-rain-is-a-handsome-animal-17-songs-from-the-poetry/547639841), [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/album/6CyUWx6roy1SbW0AjS0MnN)) by the acoustic chamber quarter (formerly trio) [Tin Hat](http://www.tinhattrio.com).

### TEXT OF POEMS

All the following are by E. E. Cummings and published in _1x1 [One times one]_ (1944), which is also included in his [Complete Poems, 1904-1962](https://www.amazon.com/Cummings-Complete-Poems-1904-1962/dp/1631490419)

**LI**

"sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love"

(all the merry little birds are

flying in the floating in the

very spirits singing in

are winging in the blossoming)

lovers go and lovers come

awandering awondering

but any two are perfectly

alone there's nobody else alive

(such a sky and such a sun

i never knew and neither did you

and everybody never breathed

quite so many kinds of yes)

not a tree can count his leaves

each herself by opening

but shining who by thousands mean

only one amazing thing

(secretly adoring shyly

tiny winging darting floating

merry in the blossoming

always joyful selves are singing)

"sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love"

**XXVII**

old mr ly

fresh from a fu

ruddy as a sun

with blue true two

man

neral

rise

eyes

"this world's made 'bout

right it's the people that

abuses it you can git

anything you like out

of it if

you gut a mind

to there's something

for everybody it's a"

old mr lyman

ruddy as a sunrise

fresh with blue come

true from

a funeral

eyes

"big

thing"

**DXIV**

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:

your victim(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 till 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

***

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