Classic Poem

Strange wares are handled on the wharves of sleep:
—Shadows of shadows pass, and many a light
—Flashes a signal fire across the night;
Barges depart whose voiceless steersmen keep
Their way without a star upon the deep;
—And from lost ships, homing with ghostly crews,
—Come cries of incommunicable news,
While cargoes pile the piers, a moon-white heap—
Budgets of dream-dust, merchandise of song,
Wreckage of hope and packs of ancient wrong,
—Nepenthes gathered from a secret strand,
Fardels of heartache, burdens of old sins,
Luggage sent down from dim ancestral inns,
—And bales of fantasy from No-Man's Land.