Oh Morpheus!
Why dost thou, King,
mock me so!
Your ever faithful prince,
with fabled curls of raven hue
and full of all mist,
evanescent, that rises
from your ancient,
far reaching yet distant
seas.
You find your rest
so easily,
in even dens of
thorns and weeds and
dried, dead leaves
wherewith only mind
to dream
you may make descend
your ebony bed
and steal away
all consciousness, except
a reality so heavenly,
the likes of which,
on Earth,
were never met
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