ON FINDING AN OLD DREAM ON HANDEL’S BIRTHDAY
The paper was a brilliant blue,
Though ragged, torn and pushed through
With holes that let the words unfold
themselves, full of summer and enclosing
Scene upon scene, each described and beamed,
Like coffered ceilings nooks full of such
Affairs that, when undone, set reeling
Long gazes of longer yet, such feeling,
That, when splayed out upon neglected pages
Of blue like this, have songs, bound to each
word and sing on and on as to some fictive muse,
Until it has consumed itself, mere ashes of a dream
That once breathed names and real dragons,
Dancing on forgotten plains, and steam;
Valley after valley dressed to half-conceal, all in steam.
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