In much we may surround to advantage,

but love, not that, is all you shake,

to where the handiwork of fashion is

ensnared by admiration and anatomy.

Forget those stirs of yesterdream,

our rightful wealth is a cleaving cunning,

sunless yet shadowed in other minds--

sleep, in permission, is a purpose

sweetly overtaking, and thrifty

requitals of hell are dissolved,

and former murmur, salacious, friend,

a firmer hallucination accepting our wiles idly--

I've a pillow, certain as kingdom,

bottomless and hurled up from the vanisher world.

Who ate the sacred fruit?

What weather targets my home?

Which illnesses will I contract in time?

Will unconquerable debts ever relieve me of penalty?

Who cares? It is not yet morning.