Life puzzles me.

I cannot tell how much of it is real

And what is dream.

I am afraid that sore time

I will poke my finger through something.

How shall I know

Whether the next breath I draw

Will not, when expelled,

Blow off the mist-dream

Of the crowded street, when I am walking?

Shall I not be afraid

Lest the great arches and walls and windows

Of this church

Dissolve

As a vision?

Whereas, with glorious assurance

I might mount the towers

And silver pinnacles of sound

That roll vast from the organ,

And fill the air.

Life puzzles me.

I am afraid that sometime

I will poke my finger through something.