(Victor Hugo)
Everything dreams; but what may be the dreams
of matter we can only make a guess,
whose minds are all a mist and maze of names
where matter is unsubstanced in the word.
Maybe the hearthstone dreams the mothering fire
that shaped its darkness, or it drinks the cool
of ancient springs; maybe it hears the choir
of stars, and dances where it lies unstirred.
A fallen forest fills the long house-beams
with shadows and the sound of wind-borne leaves.
The cedar-branches laid upon the pyre
sing, remembering a singing bird.
The sleeping sea moves, restless with desire.
Its black abysses pulse with half-shaped gleams.