I love sleep. I cannot wake
From my dreams which contain dreams:
Poison discovered at the bottom of the cup.
My reality is not poisoned by what seems.
Reality is increased by illusion; illusion selects
The island for the island-play.  The boat race
Is world-wide and made for sorrow and wrecks
No sorrow can save; otherwise fate were owned by someone.

Poets are the weariest sailors.  You might see one
Or you might never see one.  What do you know of the world?
Have you wrestled with hopes, sorrow, envy,
Fought beyond all senses, steered with sails furled
Because the stream’s underground?  Have you seen the sun
Furiously stand still while you had to hold the world?
Or sailed with sailors about to mutiny?
Forced to return or they would cut your throat?
But most important, did you have the mind
To make your sufferings more than sufferings?
I dreamed you sailed in a wooden, perfumed boat.
You were asleep, I think, and this pen was at your throat.

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