Dreams may rise,

Ethereal as smoke they rise.

They neither scatter nor dissipate,

Nor constrain through rigid form,

But stack, instead, one upon another

Our yearnings toward heaven.

Rarely wall-solid,

Seldom sensible in appearance or use,

They remain precarious in balance, and

They rise.

Fleeting structures,

Half glimpsed longings,

Urgent desires of our nighttime,

Rich compass of our days.