He dreams his way up to being,
		quietly, with unhurried breath,
		as though breath were a blossomed staircase
		leading to a perfect sky
		where kind-eyed gods themselves
		with slow, sinuous movements,
		ancient skin and immaculate hands
		would greet him kindly: "Friend!"
		As though the net to catch human souls
		were masterfully spun of poetry,
		and nothing but the sound of words,
		not even the sense--the color...
		Where are now the moon-lit woods
		standing up darkly and strictly
		in the soft, thick mist of his longing,
		now that he has constructed his perfect staircase
		and burst through his blooming sky.