I know four girls who might make queens
In timeless Avalon, and they
And I have had our fill of this
Clock-heavy world. But I, alas,
Am neither Arthur nor a king.
Nor is there magic anywhere.
But let's not cry on that account.
Clasp hands, shut eyes to form a ring,
And dance until we all fall down.
Perhaps a dizzy spell will do
What magic can't and in a trice
Swing wide the singing gates of gold.
Out from that burst of vertigo
Which numbs the sense of things that are
We five will sally forth and seize
The dazzling sands that lie between
The orchard bowers of idleness
And the tough, salt-muscled sea.