But you have not trod softly,
And my dreams lay beaten and still and dead.
Beggar's garb after your feet pass by;
A light walk to stretch your limbs.
Ever my years change.
--Still I require some cloth
And these erupted flags, these dreams, will do.
They will have to do, for being still poor,
I have only dreams and nothing less.
Because should you embark again,
Under your feet they will still be spread.
And perhaps then these rags and the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Will be one and the same.