Mechanic, merchant, king,

Are warmed by the cold clown

Whose head is in the clouds

And never can get down.

Into a solitude

Undreamed of by their fat

Quick dreams have lifted me;

The north wind steals my hat.

On clear days I can see

Green acres far below,

And the red roof where I

Was Little Trinculo.

There lies that solid world

These hands can never reach;

My history, my love,

Is but a choice of speech.

A terror shakes my tree,

A flock of words fly out,

Whereat a laughter shakes

The busy and devout.

Wild images, come down

Out of your freezing sky,

That I, like shorter men,

May get my joke and die.