Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?

What the Man-Moth fears most he must do.

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)

If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one—and the same goes for paintings.

I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so.

I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow! There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.