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Ophelia, 1905

All dreams hold within a certain scale,
So far as the body will allow. Their prodigies
Spin out upon a dull canvas: forms of brute
Colour that converge behind the palpebra's
Curtain, as forms of oil converge over water.
                             
                            Blue leaves glow like lamps
In the light behind the veil. Raspberries hang,
Succulent and cold in their endowed silence.
Openings of crimson and orange tremble as if
Tired of all their colour. Skeletal irides, lilies
Of insubstantial gold.

Position and motion join fast, breeding lights
Out of their confluence. Ophelia only watches,
Her hair strung with white periwinkles. It is
Her presence calls forth such forms, her fond
Thought that dances upon their surfeit. Hallow,
My dumb child. Make love come forth where
You lay your clouded eyes!

There will be a music to become the moment,
                And a time yet to lay your body down.