Why is it we never talk of daymares?
Her lily gray eyes only seldom blink.
To close them would open the mind to cares
So desperate she is afraid to think.
The daydream often takes us by surprise,
(Unlike fugue states we dive into for sleep);
We relinquish vision to congeries
Of the self, either stupefied or wise,
Or images that float up from some deep,
More beautiful than our best memories.
In dreams we find little to remember
Or control — there’s no order or meaning
And nothing left, an extinguished ember.
If we could trade our dreams for daydreaming . . . .