Now half asleep in stoic
discipline unseen
a season of the wings
white freedom softly
flings against the actuality
of this the present place
and of dimensioned reason.
While fact plain as water's
taste holds the pulses back
and bids the sail be furled
to the ventured world.
But yet forever half asleep
great Camelot is shining
in an unforgotten vow
that faces what we lost
with what we dream of now.