That cloudless night by the waning light of a tired moon The poet stole across the town Sleeping, always sleeping And dreaming, never dreaming A shadow and a shade A ghost that just was made Creeping across the common, past the bridge and past the fountain He pushed his wheelbarrow forward through the gloom And rested by the river where He could see the stone The shape of it alone Made him grasp his heart An artist when his art Stares back at him, a fount of living inspiration The stone, he brought it home beneath the secrecy of night The thief cometh like the Lord Into his house where it was stored He crept into the dreams of the townspeople Like a knife into a vein Or a rope around a throat
wheelbarrow, sleeping, townspeople, dreaming, fount