If there may be
such a place as I have dreamed,
if, somewhere, there may be
a place of soft grasses,
and mosses asleep beneath trees,
of violets unopened and
lilacs yet unborn; if
there may, somewhere, be a place
of ripples without streams,
and sunlight hung
between branches, gathering dust,
someplace sunlight, wearing dust
and never fading --
                    let this
be the place of last becoming,
among trees, thick
and unawakened, where I may sleep
on mosses without flowers,
and dream, and not be
dreaming, never waking to know
that I have dreamed,
asleep with the stillborn summer
in a place of last
becoming.