The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parakeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and white As powder on a mummy's face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy: The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies; And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare - Bright pilgrim - past our ken, should see Hints of Reality.

Hot water is my native element. I was in it as a baby, and I have never seemed to get out of it ever since.

Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once…

I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art.

We cast away priceless time in dreams, born of imagination, fed upon illusion, and put to death by reality.

Only a fool would refuse to enter a fool's paradise-when that's the only paradise he'll ever have a chance to enter.

Cloud cuckoo land