Who knows if the moon's

A balloon coming out of a keen city

In a sky filled with pretty people

(and if you and I should

get into it, if they

should take me and take you into their balloon

why then

we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:

go sailing

away and awy sailing into a keen

city which nobody's ever visited, where

always

it's

Spring) and everyone's

In love and flowers pick themselves.

e.e. cummings