Who said the blandishment of the moon, who said
study the interstices to know the evening
who called the heart a faulty measure of time
weighed the stars in a scale of eyesight? descend
from that poor altitude, and find a way
simple as the bee finds to a flower
plain as the sand in the palm of a child's hand
easy as the alphabet. Morning opens
noon is the full round blue of the sea
dandelion is the first and last of flowers
defies the winter as it defies autumn
evening closes like the shutter of a camera,
sleep closes the eye but not the mind,
for them the dreams come. What is your dream,
concentric algebrist? a compound only
of moons, flowers, times, mornings, noons, evenings.

As this you had, that grief was unbearable, as this you had, that truth was untellable, this of the clover, with nine leaves, this of the face with wings.

The blandishment of the mind silvers all things with ghostly delight abhors all things with profound horror or else, in an ecstasy of terror, cancels the world out and is dead. The blandishment of the pure dream is a single hand which takes the life up broken and makes it whole fills the desert with dandelions, weighs the stars with the opening of an eye. Its divine madness hears the swift sound of time but without fear makes its approach and passage as slow as a footfall brings the past backward and the future forward; bids all stand still. You, without wings, walk here; the world is beneath you like a seed; how will you have it grow. Will you have now spaces, emptinesses? a net of blood-vessels eaten by the cancer of thought? but fear to think deliberately, for deliberation is poison. Leave all to the sovereign blandishment of dream.