Are our dreams indicative? Does it exist,
That last landscapeOf gloom and glaciers and great storms
Where, cold into chasms, cataracts
Topple, and torrents
Through rocky ruptures rage for ever
In a winter twilight watched by ravens,
Birds on basalt,
And shadows of ships long-shattered lie,
Preserved disasters, in the solid ice
Of frowning fjords?
Does the Moon’s message mean what it says:
“In that oldest and most hidden of all places
Number is unknown”?
Can lying lovers believe their bones’
That all the elegance, all the promise
Of the world they wish is waiting there?
The Age of Anxiety (excerpt)