We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer Moves among us like light, like evening air . . . - Conrad Aiken

. . . while daisies burn like stars on the darkened hill.

And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought,
Combing with lifted arms her golden hair,
Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night;
And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death
As she blew out her light.

The wind shrieks, the wind grieves;
It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again;
And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams
And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.