Classic Poem

You may not believe in my other world; but it is no dream.
It can be proved with compass and scales and a plus b .
Who will integrate space and time and prove that the sum
Does not contain the quantity I describe?
Or all the grades of good and evil for every man,
Forming throughout the myriad universes
A myriad perfect men and perfect minds?
If the scale exists, can one note judge of another,
Or say it is too remote, and the instrument too vast,
To exist for any purpose or use or harmony?
What are uses and purposes? Can the note hear the song?
Therefore, as I sit here, dreaming and writing of that other me
Whom I have chosen from the myriad men who bear my nature,
He is sitting beneath a cherry-tree in bloom,
Watching the afterglow of sunset and the evening stars.
He is sitting in the quiet and peace of the evening
And the peace of the winds;
The darkness is creeping up behind him from the hills;
He does not stir; the first cold shiver of evening has not come.
Perhaps in this calm and the calm of his mind he thinks of me.