Before you were born,
there were whispers—
there'll be whispers long
after you're gone. Unreal things
have a being all their own.
But still you cannot yield.
Charioteers and chariots,
fantastic winged horses,
the real face of Plato—
are all, perhaps this
very minute, wheeling fantastic
arcs across heaven.
You'll laugh, you'll sing,
you'll write poems,
but you know
you can never yield
every last part to this
gorgeous nonsense.
Each time you remember
what doesn't exist
you dip a little in your flight.
The turbulence
is not emotional. You agree
the horses of the gods are noble.
But until you plunge
headfirst into the sea,
your disciplined heart
can never yield.
And that's how you know
you aren't free.
