Cling, swing, Spring, sing, Swing up into the apple tree.
I think we are in ratsโ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
At the still point, there the dance is.
Never commit yourself to a cheese without having first examined it.
As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.