"The bird Imagination, That flies so far, that dies so soon; Her wings are colored like the sun, Her breast is colored like the moon."

Previous Quote

In railway halls, on pavements near the traffic, They beg, their eyes made big by empty staring And only measuring Time , like the blank clock. No, I shall weave no tracery of pen-ornament To make them birds upon my singing tree: Time merely drives these lives which do not live As tides push rotten stuff along the shore.

— Stephen Spender