Every word stabs
As if for a termination
That it would infect another
With its virtuous brazening pen.
A new creation upon the page.
In dreams the offended door that we must travel thought
Leaves to a field under skies
Where words are like notes of a lute
Plain, clear, eloquence
In their troubled beauty to mean
Even the disturbing anxieties
That easily come upon man in his sleep.
