Peter has an evening which he spends away

In dreaming,

And in doing nothing, and the little things

That have the seeming

Of a nothing. Not to Peter, though.

He smokes, and sends a thread

Across the moonlight, lets the whiteness

Float a silver cloud about his head....

Peter flutters petals of a rose

On water in a beaten copper bowl,

Imagines junks on some blue ribbon of a river,

Feeds his soul

With dreaming thus, and calls it good.

He squanders a whole hour being still,

Feeling the world's breath as it comes and goes,

Listening to his own heart plunge,

And hearing silence as it rolls and flows.

He feels the phantom chain

That binds him to the world

Shake loose and fall away. Night fades

And Peter stands alone upon the edge

Of an eternal day.

He shuts his eyes and hears

The sea's green chiming

A thousand fathoms deep. He sways

To the misty water-flower's miming

Of a strange rich dance. The figures

Surge and flow about him, heavy, slow,

And swirl above his bright head, falling, streaming.... .

Peter has an evening which he spends away

In dreaming.