Amidst the creatures of the abyssal plain,

Leviathans of lacustrine paunch,

Phantoms lurking amongst the slain,

And behemoths reposed on many a haunch—

There lies the Substance of oneiric source,

The fiery, course, and intrepid force,

The one to which all kingdoms bow,

Which runs the mill and drives the plow;

In nurseries it breeds,

With fecundity unmatched,

But boots crush the feeble seeds,

And wolves prowl the recent hatched;

So as the infant saplings grow,

The crow of night begins to sow,

That which all can't live without,

That which apathetes do flout;

But nonetheless the Substance lives,

The Yeoman of his demesne did till,

Purpose, birr, and soul it gives,

For the Yeoman planted will.