From The Poet's Life #1

She drifted like Ophelia not aware of her plight as gentle currents lifted her far above the muddy bottom, enveloping her in the fragrance of flowers made melodious by her whispered singing. Her half-sleep kept her safe as she passed the haunts of men in drunken anticipation, snoring into the opposite direction. She slept through both the danger and her escape, and came to rest on a small beach along a grove of still sleeping trees. Her sleep merged with theirs in a perfect union. I know this how? Because I was a walker through the trees, absorbing like them the morning light. It was another union of perfection. But the sight of her, lovely in the pale light, strands of brown hair across her face, startled me, as she lay in her essential innocence, without a trace of guile. Oh, there must have been nearby some nymph who filled my mind with knowledge of her soul. Perhaps that same nymph erased all fear from her mind: she smiled at me and her body glided to a sitting position. I bowed to hear her soft voice, and she took it to be a surrender to her service. And thus I became a servant of this Ophelia, and came as close to ideal beauty as is permitted to me. I rejoice to breathe a common source of air with her, and feel my heart swell, since she is untouchable to my hand and mouth.