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Poem	COUNT these reminiscences like money. The Greeks had their picnics under another name. The Romans wore glad rags and told their neighbors, “What of it?” The Carlovingians hauling logs on carts, they too Stuck their noses in the air and stuck their thumbs to their noses And tasted life as a symphonic dream of fresh eggs broken over a frying pan left by an uncle who killed men with spears and short swords. Count these reminiscences like money. Drift, and drift on, white ships. Sailing the free sky blue, sailing and changing and sailing, Oh, I remember in the blood of my dreams how they sang before me. Oh, they were men and women who got money for their work, money or love or dreams. Sail on, white ships. Let me have spring dreams. Let me count reminiscences like money; let me count picnics, glad rags and the great bad manners of the Carlovingians breaking fresh eggs in the copper pans of their proud uncles.
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