Not Waving but Drowning Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

Youth is an arithmetical statement of passing interest, each hour eats it up.

Colours are what drive me most strongly.

There can be no good art that is international. Art to be vigorous and gesund must use the material at hand.

Truth is far and flat, and fancy is fiery; and truth is cold, and people feel the cold, and they may wrap themselves against it in fancies that are fiery, but they should not call them facts; and, generally, poets do not; they are shrewd, they feel the cold, too, but they know a hawk from a handsaw, a fact from a fancy, as none knows better.

Why does my muse only speak when she is uhnhappy? She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy.

It is an amiable part of human nature, that we should love our animals; it is even better to love them to the point of folly, than not to love them at all.