Where is my oasis? Too far from
here for me to crawl with these
dead legs, refusing to co-operate
Hands and fingers clawing uselessly
through the grains of sand...

It is just my imagination that flies,
While she is wrapped up in her bedsheets
like a nest.

We awake at dawn.
To sink or swim.

All words, then, belonging to the inner world of the mind, are of the imagination, are originally poetic words.

Keats mourned that the rainbow, which as a boy had been for him a magic thing, had lost its glory because the physicists had found it resulted merely from the refraction of the sunlight by the raindrops. Yet knowledge of its causation could not spoil the rainbow for me. I am sure that it is not given to man to be omniscient. There will always be something left to know, something to excite the imagination of the poet and those attuned to the great world in which they live (p. 64)

The degree in which a poet's imagination dominates reality is, in the end, the exact measure of his importance and dignity