Posthumous collection of poems from the lower-case iconoclast, e.e. Cummings. It includes some fresh, fiercely fanciful lyrics, and a few fizzed-out nes; it is really neither a plus nor a minus in the Cummings canon. Those who have always swung to the Cummings sensibility will swing here too:- on the one hand, here's the famed spirited, sensual awareness of life-force phenomena poignantly ersonified by Spring; on the other, there's the tough guy irreverence towards tradition and materialistic trivia- to be sure, somewhat more mellowed, more muted now. nd conversely, those elegants who echo New Critic Blackmur- ""when a word is used n a poem it should be the sum of all its appropriate history made concrete and particular in the individual context""- they undoubtedly shall decry Cummings typographical experiments as mere tiddly-winks, and the romantic anarchism (Cummings being, incidentally, one of the rare modern masters of joy) as simply sentimental, ver-subjective and, most probably, intellectually suspect. These demanding dissidents are, needless to say, not in the majority. To use Hollywoodisms, if in the nd Cummings was not a ""natural"", (unlike Eliot, for instance, his work never enriched nor entered the mainstream of poetry, past and present), he was, nevertheless, n ""original"". He had that ""certain something"" which was his and his alone. And t his best in 73 Poems, it is still sparkling.