A sonnet written by the heart at night Is best. It drains the magic tarns of sleep And taps some sweet and unknown spring Gushing in the mind. Night sonnets sing themselves The sight Of lovers wandering, hands clasped seems right. Of reach some stature, count the sheep Of living dreams where knights are riding, dragons slain And children swimming in the rain While weird unearthly creatures leap. There is no source of poems rich as sleep Caverns of mystery, unexplained delights In the endless countries of our nights We awake with dulcimer to sing.