All those treasures that lie in the little bolted box whose tiny space is <br />Mightier than the room of the stars, being secret and filled with dreams: <br />All those treasures—I hold them in my hand—are straining continually <br />Against the sides and the lid and the two ends of the little box in which I guard them; <br />Crying that there is no sun come among them this great while and that they weary of shining; <br />Calling me to fold back the lid of the little box and to give them sleep finally. <br /> <br />But the night I am hiding from them, dear friend, is far more desperate than their night! <br />And so I take pity on them and pretend to have lost the key to the little house of my treasures; <br />For they would die of weariness were I to open it, and not be merely faint and sleepy <br />As they are now.<br /><br />William Carlos Williams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/slow-movement/
