POEMS
THE NAP
My wristwatch tells me that we've had a little nap.
Perhaps it's stopped meantime? No, it goes,
Ticks and moves its minute hand. Upon my lap
Catullus and
Daniel Deronda
doze.
Dreamer and reader equally, I fear to wake and snap
The thread of their intelligent repose.
The china tea in the cup beside me
is
quite cold.
Quite cold, the two extremities I hold.
With the precision of assassins the hands of the clock have crept
Stealthily to quarter after two,
In spite of which I am unsure how long we've slept
(For cat and book must both sleep when I do ),
Nor can I remember what I was dreaming about, except
That once again I know I d reamt of you,
Ashamed of my furtive affection, thanking the disgrace
Of sleep wherein you have your hiding place.
No less place (to be sure) have you
in
waking thought,
But there you are less vivid and you share
Their conscious character and over complex plot
With narratives to which you can't compare.
Exquisite structure! your doings are with such meanings fraught
As Reason dreamt of in her
Dictionnaire.
Awake I try your face and cannot get it clear,
Asleep I see and touch and taste and hear.
