An old age passes; a new one gathers itself and assumes dreadful shape. In the distance, a murmurous tide seems to swell, invisible but long-rolling, while all close things yet abide in the hush of rest and contentment. Life itself seems to acquire the quality of a dream, year upon year, season after season: crowds murmur, nature grows hushed, the streets of cities turn calm and abandoned, thoughts wander and so often arrive at strange, unnerving places. 

Sleep itself is now but a vision inside a vision; and always, at the depth of night’s cavern, two eyes are discovered, brightening gradually: a face, a spirit, an accuser and an ally both – the figure of the mystery that seems to sweep over us. What will become of us, we wish to ask – but our dreams hold no answers.

I submit this work, this collection of poems, to make what impression upon the world it will.