You want fantasy? 

Here's one... 

There's this species that lives on a planet a few miles above molten rock and a few miles below a vacuum that'd suck the air right out of them. 

They live in a brief geological period between ice ages, when giant asteroids have temporarily stopped smacking into the surface. 

As far as they can tell, there's nowhere else in the universe where they could stay alive for ten seconds.

And what do they call their fragile little slice of space and time? 

They call it real life.

 

 two firemen go into a forest to put out a small fire.

Afterwards, when they emerge and go over to a stream, the face of one is all smeared with black, while the other man’s face is completely clean. 

My question is this: which of the two will wash his face?

That’s a silly question. The one with the dirty face of course.’

No, the one with the dirty face will look at the other man and assume that he looks like him. 

And, vice versa, the man with the clean face will see his colleague covered in grime and say to himself: I must be dirty too. I’d better have a wash.’

 

        Your children are not your children.

        They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

        They come through you but not from you,

        And though they are with you yet

they belong not to you.

April

 

April

I open wide the portals of the Spring 
To welcome the procession of the flowers, 
With their gay banners, and the birds that sing 
Their song of songs from their aerial towers.
 
I soften with my sunshine and my showers 
The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide 
Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours 
Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride.

 

Oh to be in England 

now that April's here 

 April is the cruellest month,

breeding Lilacs out of the dead land,

 mixing Memory and desire,

 stirring  dull roots with spring rain

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

April this year, not otherwise 

Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. 

You know how it is with an April day

The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night 

and I love the rain

And with a windy April grace 

The little clouds go by … 

I could not be so sure of Spring

save that it sings in me

Oh, to be in England 

 Now that April’s there,

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some mourning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

 In England — now!

What is in this drink but 

The April sun, squeezed 

Like an orange in My glass?

 I sip the Fire,

 I drink and drink 

Again, 

I am drunk Yes, 

but on the gold of suns…

Life begins again — in April! 

 How this dead earth comes to flower! 

 How the dry boughs wake and quicken 

 In this blooming, springtime hour! 

Life begins again — in April! 

And the bird is on the wing, 

Books are flowing, breezes tender 

 In a rhapsody of spring

April changes her sweet mind 

Every other second. 

 With her many moods and minds, 

Nothing can be reckoned. 

 I always carry an umbrella, 

 It serves for rain and sun! 

 I take my boots and out I go 

To share in April’s fun

Praise the spells and bless the charms,  

I found April in my arms.

  April golden, April cloudy, 

Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;

  April soft in flowered languor,

 April cold with sudden anger

, Ever changing, ever true —

 I love April, I love you.

April, April,  

Laugh thy girlish laughter;  

Then, the moment after, 

Weep thy girlish tears! 

April that mine ears Like a lover greetest,

 If I tell thee, sweetest,  

All my hopes and fears,  

April, April,  

Laugh thy golden laughter,

But, the moment after, 

Weep thy golden tears!