Poem

O child, when you go down to sleep’s secession,
You become more and other than you are, you become
  the procession
Of bird and beast and tree: you are a chorus,
Agony among horses, a sapling in a dark forest,
Lifting your limbs and boughs to the sky, leafing.
And then you are one with the beaver, one
With the little animals warm in the sun
Resting and hidden when it is white winter:
          And in sleep’s river you sleep
          Like the river’s self and the marine
          Beings who mouth as they glide, nosing
             And sliding lithely and smoothly
               Gleaming serenely and sleekly.