E.E. Cummings, born Edward Estlin Cummings on October 14, 1894, is considered one of the preeminent poets of the 20th century. The son of a Harvard professor, E.E. attended schools in Cambridge and summered with his family in Silver Lake, New Hampshire.

E.E.'s father later turned to the life of a minister and the young Cummings used his father's preaching style in his poetry. But E.E. is best known for his unorthodox usage of capitalization, layout, punctuation and syntax in his poetry. An extensive use of lower case letters and omitted punctuation set the stage for poetry that defied form. At times his grammar and word order were also beyond definition.

Many of Cummings poems are in fact sonnets and he sometimes used the blues format for his work. His themes were often of love and of nature as well as the inter-relationship between the individual and the collective masses.

Cummings published more than 900 poems during his extraordinary career. The talented writer also authored two novels as well as many plays and essays. Cummings was also interested in art, producing numerous drawings, sketches, and paintings.

As with many writers of his generation, Cummings traveled across the globe. He spent time in Tunisia, Russia, Italy, Mexico and France, as well as many other countries overseas. During his time abroad he published eight separate books, including in some poetry that protested America's involvement in World War II.

Edward Estlin Cummings collapsed from a cerebral hemorrhage and died in 1962

it is at moments after i have dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds

the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.