Classic Poem

When the mind is not musical left to itself the flesh
Presses with more weight the long bones.
But they are smoothed and their sagging is hidden.
Like other beds the bed of a sick man has its conventions.
Everything is green. Grass grows as high as the cleverest
Butterfly can go. The trees have branches white and sweet
As fresh cows milk and they are high as a cows voice.
The fountain lifts her skirt as high as boy's whistle.
Everything rises, everything is tall. Nothing comes down.

Put aside like a tall hat to be worn only on occasions
Is the room. Walls are yellow, the ceiling is cream rough
Like cheese. Around the bottom of the room is a brown border.
It is very much like the inside of a cab-drivers hat, this room.
This is what you see. What he sees is everything green.

There is nothing between but you cannot mix them.
The mind is not musical.