And the sea, cobwebbing all its wistful green and umber,
Winds about her gossamers of evenings remembered,
Light-skirted evenings, tip-toed or tilted against the sounds
Of adult night and disillusions without number
She might stay there until all the sands are counted
And each wave has been reduced to well-remembered laughter
This may be the perfect dream
- David Cornel De Jong