Well,
I dreamt it was a hot day, the territorials Were out on melting asphalt under the howitzers,
The brass music bounced on the houses.
Come I heard cry as it were a water-nymph, come and fulfil me And I sped floating, my feet plashing in the tops of the wheat But my eyes were blind,
I found her with my hands lying on the drying hay,
Wet heat in the deeps of the hay, as my hand delved,
And I possessed her, gross and good like the hay,
And she went and my eyes regained sight and the sky was full of ladders Angels ascending and descending with a shine like mackerel--- Now I come to tell it it sounds nonsense.
