Cling, swing, Spring, sing, Swing up into the apple tree.

The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.

Humankind cannot bear very much reality.

Art is the escape from personality.

To become what you are not, behave as you do not.

All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance.

It seems just possible that a poem might happen to a very young man: but a poem is not poetry -That is a life.