What I dream so fictionally in haste, you may assume
it sense, my friend—as sure as minutes shrouding them
roll bedsides in their dirge for day;
and as so far as weary sun can stretch, so, too, the
wakeful mind, wandering, catches once
the thousandth shred of possible and then,
to sleep it, too, confides.

For I know by what is black and what is white—
amid the sun and over stars and through the moon—
I know from things alurk but never seen nor tender touched
And things that cling to me;
I know that I know; how can you say as firm as dawn
Or sunset, the yawn of death is me
No more?