Clouds of Evening

Enormous cloud-mountains that form over Point Lobos and into the sunset,
Figures of fire on the walls of to-night's storm,
Foam of gold in gorges of fire, and the great file of warrior angels:
Dreams gathering in the curded brain of the earth,
The sky the brain-vault, on the threshold of sleep: poor earth, you like your children
By mordinate desires tortured make dreams?
Storms more enormous, wars nobler, more toppling mountains, more jewelled waters, more free
Fires on impossible headlands … as a poor girl
Wishing her lover taller and more desirous, and herself maned with gold,
Dreams the world right, in the cold bed, about dawn.
Dreams are beautiful; the slaves of form are beautiful also; I have grown to believe
A stone is a better pillow than many visions.
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