Waters, hypnotic, long after moonset, murmur
Under your window, and Time
Is only a shade on the underside of the beech-leaf
Which, upward, reflects a tiny refulgence of stars.
What can you dream to make Time real again?
I have read in a book that dream is the mother of memory,
And if there’s no memory where—oh, what—is Time?
— Robert Penn Warren, from “Dream,” in “II. Speculative,” Now and Then: Poems 1976-1978 (Random House, 1978)