Was not the waking eye but more the dream
whose dreamer’s wakeful mind did truly see—
license given to walk among the living light
and give this living mind a better eye
to see, and see rightly, all the beauty in
this place, and not in short supply.
To think, how oft I’d missed the sublime
among the ordinary daily cast before
my waking eyes. I pain the thought of
all I’d lost to lesser sight. Behold now
as imagination dares, the gilded web,
the morning’s remnant of a nightly architect
who spins and joins and spins her web
and leaves us left her delicate diadem.
I bend and glance into the garden pool
(who oft I pass for oft I better things to do)
and find to my good pleasure jewels,
as golden scaled and lovely as I dream
are any thing so good as from above
who dared design a symphony of love
and in his excess deigned to light our seas
with all the color of the bow he sets for thee
and thee and thee. What promises he keeps.
What majesty his hands make and repeat.
And I, too oft awake to see the dream.