Petrachan

In the woods there is a clear cool stream
Translucent, pure, and so intoxicating
That those who drink from it begin to dream
Of subjects and desires so titillating
That when they wake they beg to dream again,
Cursing themselves for fools for ever waking,
Cursing the world as one enormous pen
In which they live forever caged, forsaking
Lives, family, and all to dip once more
Into the stream and live forever dreaming.
One day I chanced to find this stream, and pour
Myself a glass of it, crystalline, palely gleaming;
But as I drank I saw your face and knew
I must have dreamt already, to have you.