Dream on while your prophetic sight Is still too keen to probe the day, Before the spectrum of your night Is recomposed to faded grey— Before the riot of your vision Is sobered by our prose derision.

Look as you may—horizon-faced! The distant palms are waving now. But do not touch and do not taste The fruit that clusters from the bough. For on those sands no healing wings Are poised above the water springs.

And when the horses thunder on, And dust is on the charioteer, Beware the advent of the Dawn, Lest that the eye betray the ear; Sleep on and let the day eclipse The ghosts of your apocalypse.