The Wharf of Dreams

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.