A night, my friend, thee’lt often call to mind.
The flame hath sprung and lappeth at the twigs.
Thee’lt watch the burning of thy hastiness,
And wait thee long
Until the embers slip away to smoke.
Then strain ye to its weaving
And spell to me the reading of its folds.
Dreamer:
I see thin, threading lines that writhe them
To a shape—a visage ever changeful,