Dreams don’t smell or sound as strong as this.
Mythological Introduction, Philip Larkin
A white girl lay on the grass
With her arms held out for love;
Her goldbrown hair fell down her face,
And her two lips move:
See, I am the whitest cloud that strays
Through a deep sky:
I am your senses’ crossroads,
Where the four seasons lie.
She rose up in the middle of the lawn
And spread her arms wide;
And the webbed earth where she had lain
Had eaten away her side.