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For some minutes the image of the
White room and the peeling paint
Remained to me, held in place by
A nebulous and disconcerting sense
That somehow the train and its
Passengers were only a continuation
Of my dream, that at any time
            I might wake anew and find
Myself somewhere else altogether,
For instance at home in my bed.
Of the preceding events that passed
Before me in sleep I retained only
Fragments : their order had become
    Confused and their vitality gone.
I remembered the darkness and the
Movement of lights and great sounds,
But I could not hear or see them
Any longer, they were now no more
Than ideas to me. I felt this as a loss.
I began suddenly to think of my
Brother, but it was impossible to
Determine if this thought had come
Out of some forgotten part of the
Dream, or from a submerged idea
Of him in my mind, or from some
Other far place without coordinate.
The longer I looked the fainter the
Images of the dream grew, until
    I remembered only the white room.
Smoke rose above passing silhouettes
Of buildings, lit yellow and ringed
            With a periphery of weak stars.