Who knows if the moon's a balloon, coming out of a keen city in the 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 away sailing into a keen city which nobody's ever visited, where always it's Spring and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves.
Poem by E. E. Cummings

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