I stand in mid-air halfway through the night.
I look around me—this dark night is still.
(I do not fly, not mine’s the power of flight.)
And through the gloom I see the hidden hills:
Where dreamy lovers go to do things right
Or where the corpses rise and eat their fill
Of innocent flesh (and ’tis a rotten sight).
But under me is peace, and that I feel.
I hand in mid-air somewhere in the sky.
Perhaps I laugh, perhaps I quietly cry—
For, seeing dreams, and knowing what is shown,
Is burden—as a cross on one does lie.
And madness flirts with me as Time creeps by;
…I feel, I feel, this madness, not my own.