I have been dreaming of a quiet place
Upon an ancient hilltop.
It stands alone in crumbled words somewhere,
Where memories that are not mine desist;
Where I can know the memories I’ve thought
And which ones from the common brain I’ve caught.
For in my world we’re all born old,
And if I can see stars at all,
I cannot write our names in them
— I have tried to write them, yes —
But each star has its names and places,
Empty of our pretty faces.
On that dead hill beneath the night
I’d dream on how the first men might
Have seen at last the beauty of their world;
I fear and love that beauty like a child,
And fear and love it more for being wild.
