`Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!`
How I loved my childhood.
Officially the heart is oblong, muscular, and filled with longing.
But anyone who has painted the heart knows that it is also spiked like a star
And sometimes bedraggled like a stray dog at night
And sometimes powerful like an archangel’s drum
And sometimes cube-shaped like a draughtsman’s dream
And sometimes gaily around like a ball in a net.
And sometimes like a thin line
And sometimes like an explosion.
And in it is also a river,
A weir and at most one little fish
By no means golden.
More like a grey jealous loach.
It certainly isn’t noticeable at first sight.
Anyone who has painted the heart knows
That first he had to discard his spectacles,
His mirror, throw away his fine-pointed pencil
And carbon paper and for long while