My mind's a map. A mad sea-captain drew
   it
 Under a flowing moon until he knew it;
 Winds with brass trumpets, puffy-cheeked
   as jugs,
 And states bright-patterned like Arabian 
   rugs.
 "Here there be tygers." "Here we buried
   Jim."
 Here is the strait where eyeless fishes swim
 About their buried idol, drowned so cold
 He weeps away his eyes in salt and gold.
 A country like the dark side of the moon,
 A cider-apple country, harsh and boon,
 A country savage as a chestnut-rind,
 A land of hungry sorcerers. 
                                           Your mind?

--Your mind is water through an April
   night,
 A cherry-branch, plume-feathery with its
   white,
 A lavender as fragrant as your words,
 A room where Peace and Honor talk like
   birds,
 Sewing bright coins upon the tragic cloth
 Of heavy Fate, and Mockery, like a moth,
 Flutters and beats about those lovely
   things.
 You are the soul, enchanted with its 
   wings,
 The single voice that raises up the dead
 To shake the pride of angels.
                                              I have said.