Classic Poem

Gather the wind in your fist,
Bind the waters in a cloth,
Strap the moon to your wrist,
Stamp it out like a moth.

The lion, the greyhound, the goat
Step in the stirrups of the wind;
The spider spins a cool coat
And sleeps in the coat he spinned.

Though all your chains cannot keep
The moon and the moth and the hound,
In palaces of purple sleep
There also the spider is found.