I want to hear cellos on the winds
And we can dance in wheat fields—
Like a dream I may have binned.
The rain will pour around us
But our clothes will stay dry
And the glow from the moon will
Brighten our eyes—our eyes that
Are wide awake in the dreamy fields
That we'd never touch while we're
Counting ordeals, while lucid
In the hours of the afternoon
And tired from the brightness of
The fantasy-filled moon.