Were I a cloud I’d gather My skirts up in the air, And fly well know whither, And rest I well know where.
Were I a cloud I’d gather My skirts up in the air, And fly well know whither, And rest I well know where.
Having imagination it takes you an hour to write a paragraph that if you were unimaginative would take you only a minute.
I know that if odour were visible, as colour is, I’d see the summer garden in rainbow clouds.
The Jungian view of drama would be that it affects all of our imaginations and somehow taps into our hidden, ancient, primordial memories.
The level of our success is limited only by our imagination and no act of kindness, however small, is ever wasted.
The ability of writers to imagine what is not the self, to familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar, is the test of their power.
Life is not so bad if you have plenty of luck, a good physique, and not too much imagination.
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