Five Poems

Necessary Laziness
Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man,
Seyde he nat thus, 'Ne do no fors of dremes?'

I have dreamed lately serene-blue unsolipsistic dreams,
Slumbering off the passive exhausting delirium of flu.
'A mere fever of thyself,' Keats would call me,
But my own life seems a bit less real than other people's
Just at the moment; I am one
Of those to whom the impressions of the world
Are beautiful and will not let them rest: -
A vision of the progress of an essay
Which I have never waking contemplated
But on which Susan
Is presently intent
Blended into walking down Culcheth Hall Drive
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