One sees stars at the bottom of a well,
But they are lies. The constellations there
Are not the ones through leagues of felted air
And crystal spheres, nor ghosts of stars that fell
In ages past, nor are they devils’ eyes
Or salamanders’ droppings or bright gems
That gnomes have mined and polished, or the stems
Of subterranean fruits that sorcerers prize
For properties obscure. They’re merely gleams
From damp-slick stones. That’s all. Or maybe coins
Tossed down by other fools. The specks you spy there,
When hauled up in a tub, the sun purloins.
Don’t think me rude—there’s nothing wrong with dreams,
But you won’t catch me jumping down there, either.