Out of the joy of process
and its attendant aim
for bettering,
there naturally shows an array
of dream pieces...
imaginary things that seem better
than most of the things we have here,
and better they are, because we think
they are, though we know they are
only imaginary,
and then we can further imagine
an imagination able to imagine
a best: a better to every better anywhere...
a whole imaginary class
of supreme things
that can always be dreamed,
but can never be here, because
here is just here, except for
that part of here, which is
our imagination.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem