The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

The apple was meant to take away the bitter taste, perhaps,_ he said.__ imagine that Mr. Turing wasn__ exactly looking for a taste experience,_ said Corell.__an always tries to limit his suffering.

Yes, you can be a dreamer and a doer too, if you will remove one word from your vocabulary : impossible.

Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree

Oh, my child, can you not see? You must let go of yourself. For if a seed wishes to live, it must sacrifice itself and grow outward, not inward.

The seed must be buried, for the flower to bloom.