A Nightmare
Don Marquis
Leagues before me, leagues behind,
Clamor warring wastes of flood,
All the streams of all the worlds
Flung together, mad of mood;
Through the canon beats a sound,
Regular of interval,
Distant, drumming, muffled, dull,
Thunderously rhythmical;
Crafts slip by my startled soul—
Soul that cowers, a thing apart—
They are corpuscles of blood!
That’s the throbbing of a heart!
God of terrors!—am I mad?—
Through my body, mine own soul,
Shrunken to an atom’s size,
Voyages toward an unguessed goal!
